


Crawford Investigations: Mansion in Manhattan

by 35portlandrow



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Average-Teenager-Level Language, Gen, New York City, Stroud-Level Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-07-26 08:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7567633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/35portlandrow/pseuds/35portlandrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1987, American society was shaken to its core when the Invasion strikes - a paranormal phenomenon where the dead come back to haunt the living. Surely that would have been the end of the nation as we knew it, until a young pioneer, Jordan McKinley, rose to the occasion, leading the American people in a fight to overcome. But, this story isn’t about her.</p><p>After a harrowing incident, Ruby Rosario and Dallas Crawford are fired from their jobs at McKinley and open their own agent: Crawford Investigations. With the help of the prodigous Nguyen sisters, they help free New York City from the clutches of the Invasion. Or, at least, Manhattan. Then, when a smash-hit Broadway musical prompts the City to reopen the Morris-Jamel Mansion, Crawford Investigations is hired for the job. Around their investigation, tensions escalate between the working class and corporations, and Ruby must face a ghost from her past, one that haunts her days and her nights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dallas comes home from a funeral in London and an idea is hatched.

Here’s the truth: I’ve been employed since I was six years old. My mother, God bless her still-beating heart, saw the signs immediately: How I paid more attention to things that weren’t there; how I tossed and turned in my crib at night, plagued by voices only I could hear; how I preferred books to the company of, well, any other living being around me. So my mother, being astute as she is, enrolled me in the McKinley Academy, pointed one stubby brown finger down at me, and said: “This one’s a researcher. Teach her how to protect herself, yes, but do not let her think she is any sort of hero, yes?” 

I was, upon my entrance into the hallowed halls of the McKinley Institute, branded a psychic research prodigy. Whatever the fuck that means. Because of this, I spent most of my days learning, zipping up the ranks to the top of my class, kissing up to teachers, and -- most importantly, I think -- making fast friends with one Dallas Crawford, a Broadway-loving, silver-spoon-suckling, overenthusiastic everything-enthusiast who recommended that I watch  _ Seven Brides for Seven Brothers _ , which brings me to this moment. Here, imagine it: Me, in all my Venezuelan glory, sitting on a ratty old futon in my home in Washington Heights, eating my frankly hefty weight in popcorn, and mourning the fact that, for the first time since the age of six, I am unemployed.

If I’m being honest with you (and I will try to be from here on out), I’m not even watching  _ Seven Brides for Seven Brothers _ . I already ran out of issues of  _ True Hauntings: US  _ to read and also finished reading every single one of my mother’s trashy Spanish romance novels, so this is just something to pass the time until Dallas comes home from London. So, here I sit, whittling the time away. Watching whatever the fuck this is. Nothing better to do. Still not over the fact that I don’t have a job.

As I sit in angsty squalor in the living room, the front door in the main hallway opens with a wide swing and a  _ thwump _ as it hits the adjacent wall. I crane my neck back and watch my older brother, Antonio, stumble into the house.

Antonio, well, if you want a visual, he’s the male version of me: Short; stocky; with the curling, dark, coarse hair that’s on both our heads and a little bit on our upper lip; brown skin; thick, arching eyebrows; and the piece de resistance, an angular jaw that gets all the fly honeys going. And now he walks into the living room, throwing his bags beside me on the futon and crumpling into its uncomfortable, threadbare embrace.

“Hola,” he says. 

I toss a pillow at his head.“How was school, you piece of shit?”

“It’s Spring Break, so I’m off for a week, which means I get to bother you for a week.”

“That’s  _ so  _ funny.”

“When does Dallas come home from London?”

“Not soon enough. I think tomorrow at eleven?”

“AM or PM?”

“AM. Jesus, Tony, does it matter?” 

“Not really, Ruby, I’m just …”  _ Worried about you _ . He doesn’t say it, but it’s in the way he eyes my disheveled hair and my two-day-old pajamas like he would the Elmo in Times Square: Warily, like some kind of rabid critter is going to jump out from its haphazardness and attack. Instead, he reaches into his messenger bag and drops today’s issue of the  _ New York Times  _ on my lap. While he stands and smiles at me without his teeth, I unfold it. There, on the front page, is a picture of a blonde woman, with a wide face, unsmiling, but with an attractive sparkle in her eye. Above the picture is the headline  _ ANGELINE CRAWFORD MADE SUCCESSOR OF FAIRFAX IRONS UK _ . I skim the article underneath, catching phrases like  _ killed in his home, Combe Carey Hall  _ and  _ great-niece, CEO of Fairfax Irons USA  _ and  _ to move to London to run the main branch. _

I set the newspaper on my lap and stare ahead. The implications of this … Wait, so Angeline’s gonna run the London branch, and Dallas is gonna? No. He’s not going to go  _ with  _ her, is he? Suddenly, I jump to my feet, clutching the newspaper in one hand. But once I’m up, I can’t remember where the hell I meant to go. Tony comes in then, a pencil tucked behind both ears.

“I forgot to ask,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. “How was seeing Seth?”

Something heavy that tastes too much like grief settles into my stomach. I choke it back and smile.  “Fine,” I lie.

“He’s recovering okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, settling back down into the couch. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tony move like he’s about to leave. “Wait,” I call. Tony comes back, resumes his post by the door. I mute the TV and rotate so I can see him. “Honestly, it went horribly.” Tony sits back down next to me. “He … He actually  _ blames  _ me for what happened to him. A-And when I told him that we actually lost our fucking jobs trying to get him out of that warehouse, he just told me he didn’t want to hear any of my shit.” 

We’re silent for a little while, and I can tell he’s trying to formulate a response, but he just sighs and lays an awkward hand on my shoulder. “You’ll be okay, I think.”

“Thanks, Tony.” There’s an awkward silence, and he pats my shoulder and gets up. Sighing, both at my brother’s helpless awkwardness and my helpless employment situation, I unmute the TV. I zone out, thinking about everything and yet absolutely nothing at all. The movie ends, the credits rolling. I get up to get a different movie -- Dallas suggested  _ Rocky Horror _ . I’m kind of musical-ed out, but I’d like to have something to talk to him about other than Seth and his mom (still not over that) and how we don’t have jobs. In the end, I pop  _ Rocky Horror  _ into the VCR and hunker down. I’m probably about two musical numbers in when someone knocks at the door.

“Tony! Get the door!” 

From the kitchen, Tony groans.“No, you get it!”

“I look like shit!”

“That’s nothing new! You go get it!” Affronted, I pause the TV and shuffle to the front door, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I open the door, and it swings wide to reveal Dallas, in a sharp black overcoat, sweatpants, an old McKinley sweatshirt, and flip-flops. An odd outfit, but not entirely un-Dallas. When he sees me, he jumps over the threshold and envelops me in a tight bear-hug.

“Oh, my God, I missed you so much.”

“Dallas, it’s been two weeks.” He pulls away, his arms still around my shoulders.

“Well, did you know that two weeks is the longest we’ve been apart from each other since --”

“We met. I know.”

“No, actually, since my summer in Europe two years ago.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Remember, because you lived at my house for, like, a month after?”

“It’s hard not seeing you!”

“Well,” says Dallas, grinning broadly. “Do I blame you?” Playfully, I smack him on the back. He scowls in mock-pain, but perks up like a puppy at something over my shoulder. “Is that ‘The Time Warp’ I’m hearing?” He breaks away from the embrace, flying to the living room, leaping and landing ungracefully on the couch. I follow him. He moves his legs to make room for me and I join him. “Do you like it so far?” He asks, not looking away from the TV.

“Ah, yeah, sure.” I pause as he bobs his blond head to the music. “Dallas? I read about your mom.” This gets his attention. He looks over at me, his wide hazel eyes curious.

“Well, what about her? That she’s moving to London and Dakota’s taking over things here?”

“Yeah. Actually, that’s exactly what I read.”

“Ah.” For a second, I debate whether or not to ask him if that means that he’s going with her. Like we discussed earlier, the longest Dallas and I have been apart since we met was two months. Just the thought of not seeing him everyday makes me a little bit queasy. He’s my best friend. But, it’d save me the anxiety of not knowing, so, like the scholar that I am, I ask.

“Does that mean that you’re moving to London?” He grimaces, shakes his head. 

“Definitely not. Mom figured that I’m independent enough already to live with Dakota in the apartment. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense for her to take me with her anyway. So, here I stay.” I let out a quiet sigh of relief. The idea of being several hundred miles away from my best friend was exhausting.

“How was London?” I ask, desperate to move onto the next subject. “How was the funeral? Are you, uh, holding up okay?”

“London? Rainy. Smelled more like weed than I thought it would. Beautiful city, though. The funeral was, well, a  _ funeral _ . People said some words, we sang a hymn, people cried. I’m holding up just fine. Dakota was…, you know,  _ Dakota _ . Only Mom was a little bit sad -- Uncle John was her mentor, taught her everything she knows about business and that stuff. I think she’ll be happy in London. Oh, but you know what my favorite part about the trip was?”

“What?”

“Combe Carey.”

“Isn’t that where Uncle John died?”

“Well, he lived there too. Oh, Ruby, it’s gorgeous, I wish you could have seen it. Big old property. Beautiful gardens and this crystal clear pond. Soaring towers and these wide windows. I wasn’t allowed to touch the furniture, though, which kind of sucked.” His hands fly this way and that, eyes sparkling with his grin. We took a course on professionalism during an interim in our last year at McKinley. The instructor told us not to talk with our hands. If we talk with our hands, she said, it sends the message that our words alone are not enough, so we compensate by gesticulating. Dallas, being Dallas, forgot that part of the lesson and, to this day, still waves his hands around like a lunatic.

“How were things back here?” he asks. “Did you, um … Did you talk to Seth?” 

I did go and talk to Seth, but … It didn’t go as smoothly as Dallas would want to hear.

There’s a pain in my chest as I remember my conversation with him, sitting on his desk chair in his bedroom. The floors, for once is his goddamn life, were actually visible. It was probably Adhira, his mother, who cleaned it up, so he wouldn’t trip. He had stared over my shoulder, unseeing, as I stood in the doorway. Leaning against his bookshelf was a white and red cane. He sat, arms folded, brow furrowed, speaking in a harsh whisper. With another pang in my chest, I remember his words, like cyanide-coated switchblades, wounding me and withering away at me.

Beside me, Dallas shifts uncomfortably. “Oh, my God, did you guys break up?” 

I laugh once, bitterly, not looking at him.“You can’t break up when you’re not dating.” I feel his smile more than I see it, and it makes me feel just a little bit better. 

“You were  _ so _ dating.” 

I poke his shoulder. “You are so full of shit. He’s, ah, he’s fine.” Lie. “He just asked for a little bit of space.” Not really a lie, but still a lie. I look at Dallas. “He lost a lot, Dall. A lot more than we did. We should give him that time.” 

Dallas scoffs, leans back into the couch. “You’d think he’d want to be around his friends, considering what happened.”

“And he will. Just not yet.” We sit in glum silence, both of us staring glossy-eyed at the TV, not really watching it. I don’t know what has Dallas zoned out, but above the music of  _ Rocky Horror _ , I just hear Seth’s words, repeating over and over me again. For the millionth time, I relive him damning us, blaming him for his … His  _ injury _ . Banishing me from his home and us from his life. As much as it hurts me, I cannot imagine what he’s going through. To lose something as vital as sight? I can say honestly that I don’t blame him for lashing out. It’s a lot to take.

“Hey,” says Dallas softly. “Do you want to know something absolutely wild?”

“Shoot.”

“There’s an agency in London that’s totally independent. Runs without supervisors.” 

I hum, a bit absently.“That’s interesting.”

“Isn’t it?” By now, he’s sitting upright, turned to face me, his hands hovering in front of him, ready to burst into action. “I mean, I was thinking about it on the flight back home. It’s these three kids. They were working on Combe Carey the night Uncle John died. But get this: They run the agency  _ by themselves _ . No interference from adults who, frankly speaking, have no place in the workplace and definitely no place out on the work field. They get to pick and choose their clients. They don’t have to answer to anyone other than themselves. Doesn’t that sound like a sweet gig?”

“I suppose.” 

He beams, claps his hands together. “Great. So we’re doing it?” 

I start, pause the TV, and stare at him. “What?”

“Opening our own agency,” he says, this time a bit sheepishly. 

I push the blanket off of me.“I didn’t say  _ anything  _ about that.” 

Dallas, jumping to his feet, shakes his head and holds up his hands in surrender.“No, hear me out. We can be our own bosses. Pick our own clients. It’ll be awesome!” I rise to join him, facing him head-on. One of the goddamn  _ worst  _ things about Dallas is that, once he gets an idea, no matter how impractical, he just can’t let him go. And now, considering he is unemployed and therefore, bored, I will have to pry this idea right out of his scheming little brain.

“Dallas. First of all, you’re sixteen. I’m pretty sure that, legally, you cannot open your own business.”

“But I’m old enough to put my life on the line every night!”

“Point taken. Second of all, where are you going to get the money to open up a business? They don’t just happen. I don’t have any money saved up. It all goes to my mom to help her pay the rent and Tony’s tuition.

“I’ll just take some money out of my trust fund.” Jesus Christ, I forgot who I was talking to. He steps closer to me, grabs my shoulder gently. “Ruby. Seriously. I’ve talked to my mom about it and she’s on board.” This surprises me. Usually the only on-board with Dallas’s hare-brained schemes is, well,  _ Dallas _ . 

“Really?” He nods vigorously. 

“Yeah. She figures it’ll be good practice for when I kick Dakota’s geriatric ass out of the chair and take over Fairfax USA.” He sighs and leans in closer to me. “So, promise me you’ll at least think about it. Please. I don’t want to do this without you.” Damn Dallas and those big hazel puppy dog eyes. This asshole could get away with murder just by batting his eyelashes. I sigh and wiggle out of his grasp.

“Dallas, I’m not really in the right frame of mind to make a big commitment like that. I just want to stay home for a little while longer until I can get back on my feet.” I flop back down onto the couch and pretend to watch  _ Rocky Horror  _ until Dallas joins me. He reaches for the blanket that’s draped over the back of the couch and tucks himself in. He reaches an arm around me, pulling me into his side. I don’t resist it. Leaning my head on his shoulder, I close my eyes. For the first time in a couple of weeks, I breathe a little easier. 

“Well,” he begins. “Until you get back on your feet, I’ll be here. With you.”


	2. The Nguyen Sisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dallas and Ruby dance a foxtrot, conduct some interviews, and escape the corporate beast.

Initially, my protests at the notion of opening an independent psychic investigations were rooted in the anxiety that, by fucking up my first case since graduating from McKinley, I had proven that I am just not good at anything. It’s not a rational thought, and I know that. It’s just … I’d always felt like an outsider at McKinley. I was one of, like, five non-white kids who attended. McKinley is a public institution, funded by the state, but is still super selective. Ish. The only kids who go there are scholarship kids (me) and the children of disgustingly wealthy individuals (Dallas) who were only attending to give off the illusion of societal contribution. Not that Dallas is like that. The reason why we’re friends is because he’s never been like that. In fact, he’s the only one of those blue-blooders who would deserve a scholarship if he needed one. Which he doesn’t.  

Not only that, I was the first in my class, consistently outperforming everyone as far as academics went. Am I a good shot with an iron pellet gun? Sorta. Am I skilled with a bayonet? A little. Am I athletic? Questionably, at my best. But I’m dedicated and hardworking, something that ostracized me from the blue-blood snobs surrounding me.

Still, despite my academic success, it still wasn’t easy. The girls I roomed with were  clique-y and probably purposefully kept me on the outside of the group, which gave me this nasty habit of always second-guessing myself and what I said. That, unfortunately, weaseled its way into my work life, and I have performed questionably in the field ever since. And then came the accident. 

It was my fault. My fault entirely. Well, it was also sort of Dallas’s fault. Which you could never tell by how vicariously he threw himself into creating Crawford Investigations: New York City’s (and probably North America’s. We haven’t checked yet) premiere independent organization. Yes, he finally wore me down. His impressive technique of whittling away at my resolve by whining and by his in-depth knowledge of how to get me to do things finally convinced me to say yes. After another month of unemployment, I got bored. Also, I missed seeing Dallas on a daily basis.

Which leads me to this fine early December afternoon, the snow falling in pretty little white flurries, which is about as romantic as it sounds, until you step out onto the street and see how those flawless white flakes collect and turn a dingy shade of gray. (New York may be the greatest goddamn city on the face of the earth, but it’s not exactly  _ clean _ .) Me? I’m in the kitchen at No. 3, 400 W 186th Street in Hudson Heights, in my nicest black interviewing dress, my hair wrangled back in a sensible ponytail, brewing some iced tea and making bologna sandwiches. Surprisingly, despite the cold and the fact -- and it’s a  _ proven  _ fact -- that bologna is fucking disgusting, the interviewees have been woofing them down. This is the third time that day that I’ve refilled the plate, and it’s hardly even noon. 

Anyway. Dallas got this place at a killer price. It was foreclosed or something and there were a lot of little repairs that needed to be done, but structurally, it’s perfect. It’s a decently spacious apartment on the ground floor. You meet the doorman, tell him that you have an appointment with Crawford Investigations, and he’ll direct you to our front door. Then, once you open the door, you step into a little hallway. On each side, there are three doors. The first one on the right is what Dallas calls “the parlor.” Basically, it’s where we conduct all our client interviews. The next two doors on the right are to a small kitchen and a smaller dining area. The doors on the left side lead to three more rooms: One is a full bathroom, the other is a barely-decorated room that we use for an office (but there’s also a little cot there for me, if I wind up working too late), and the third is a bedroom, which is where Dallas sleeps. See, he figured it was impractical to commute every morning from the Upper East Side to Hudson Heights every morning and every night just to sleep. Also, I think he likes living alone: It means he can do embarrassing shit without anyone catching him.

Embarrassing shit being what I catch him doing, as I carry the tray of sandwiches and iced tea into the parlor, where a vinyl record of the cast recording on  _ Rent  _ spins around and around on the record player.

Dallas told me once -- a long, long time ago -- that if he could be anything in the world, he’d want to be an actor.

“But not just any kind of actor,” said nine-year-old Dallas during a haunting simulation in our third year. “I’d want to be on Broadway.” And he smiled that sort of dreamy smile of someone looking back on their youth and all the missed opportunities, which was really out of place on his freckled, chubby-cheeked mug. “Not only would I want to be on Broadway, I’d want to be in  _ Les Mis _ . I’d wanna be Gavroche, and then I’d come back to the show and play Marius. And then I’d come back and play Javert. Nobody wants to play Valjean. He’s boring. That’s what my dad says, at least. A good actor goes for the interesting roles, the ones that are deep. That’s what my dad says.” Then, nine-year-old me smiled graciously, like I knew the fuck what  _ Les Mis  _ is and who all those people are.

Needless to say, Dallas loves the theatre. He’s tried valiantly to get me to see a show, but I pass. It’s not my thing. Besides, why have him shell out all that money for Broadway tickets when I can just see him reenact everything in our parlor? Like he is now. Dancing around in a nicely-tailored navy suit, one hand on an invisible waist and the other supporting an invisible hand, trying to sing both parts of a bouncy duet on his own. I set the tray down on the coffee table, allowing a small smile to slip onto my face. 

“Maybe turn that down?” I almost have to shout to be heard over the music, but Dallas hears me anyway and obliges. He reaches out his hand. Warily, I take it, and he spins me around before pulling me back. 

“Sorry about that. I’m de-stressing.” He spins me again, and thankfully, I don’t trip over my own feet.

We’ve had a lot of interviews today. Lots of young graduates from local academies. There was one from McKinley who seemed promising to Dallas, but she had neglected to send in a resume or references, so she was vetoed. There was a girl, surprisingly enough, from the Vasquez Academy -- an all-girls school dedicated to teaching non-violent methods of eradication of Intruders -- who had “converted” and wanted to join an agency. Remarkable, but solely because once you’re a Vasquez girl, you’re always a Vasquez girl. Now that I think about it, we’ve gotten a lot of females. When I look at Dallas, I can sorta see why.

He’s a good-looking, for a white boy, I guess. I dunno. I’ve known him too long to ever think him attractive, but I can see why others would be dazzled. He’s tall and broad in a way that, on any other person, would be imposing and scary, but with his freckles and the collection of stubborn baby fat that refuses to leave his face and tummy, he doesn’t even toe the line. Instead, he’s endearing: All smiles and golden hair and good-nature and hearty laughter. “Sort of like if Captain America and Thor had a baby with a dad bod,” Tony once said. While that’s not quite how I would have put it, I can agree. 

“I feel you,” I say. “Everyone we’ve interviewed --”

“Has been absolutely unremarkable.”

“I know.” Dallas lets out this exasperated, strangled groan. 

“But we only have two more interviews!” He spins me again, worriedly. “Ruby, what if they’re like the rest? What if we don’t find anyone.” Thankfully, the song ends, and I let go of him and reach for the manila folder resting on the armrest of a deep blue recliner.

“Well,” I begin, rifling through the papers. “These candidates actually sent their resumes in advance, so I’m thinking that they’re not.” I find what I’m looking for: Two resumes, both on daffodil-yellow paper for Elodie and Isabelle Nguyen, a fifteen- and thirteen-year-old pair of sisters. I hand them to Dallas, and he places one hand on his chin and holds one resume with the other. While he reads, his face takes a journey from scrutiny to mildly impressed to “trying-to-be-chill” to “holy-fucking-hell.” It takes a lot of effort not to laugh. 

“First in her class?” he says, his eyes widening.

“Mmhmm.”

“Dean’s List?”

“Oh, yeah.” Before he can speak, I swap the resumes in his hand. “But that’s just the younger sister. Take a look at Elodie.” He reads it thoughtfully.

“Also first in her class.”

“Yep.”

“Also Dean’s List.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Wait, what does that say?”

“She got a key to the city of Orlando.”

“Wait.” He looks at the resume more closely, holding it right up to his eye. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“But what for?”

“Um, I looked it up actually, because I wasn’t sure why someone would include that on their resume if it wasn’t work-related. But it is. Turns out she saved a bunch of people from a Poltergeist.” He hums, slightly impressed and lowers the resume from his face.

“Nice.”

“Off-duty. On her own. In Disney World.” For a minute, Dallas stands there, stunned. He laughs, shakes his head, and flops into the recliner.

“This is some kind of joke,” he mutters, staring blankly out the window. I step in his line of vision, and he looks up at me.

“Dallas, this is real.” He stands up again, runs a harassed hand through his hair, and laughs. 

“These Nguyen sisters are going to take both of our jobs and run this business by the end of their first day. You do realize that right?” To the people who don’t yet know Dallas Crawford, understand that what he’s doing right now isn’t anxiety or nerves: It’s how his typically unbridled excitement manifests when he’s trying to keep cool. He may look like he’s freaking out, and he is, but it’s in a good way. 

“Well, let’s just see how they interview, okay?” He breathes deeply through his nose. He opens his mouth, but is promptly cut off by the buzzing of the doorbell. With a cocked eyebrow, he looks at his watch.

“Is that them? They’re early.”

“Only by two minutes.” I step towards the door, my hand reaching for the knob. The record player spins on in the background, playing music, and I gesture for Dallas to turn it off. He removes the needle and joins me at the door. We make eye contact. He nods slightly, and I open the door.

Standing on the Pottery Barn welcome mat are two Asian teenage girls, dressed in different shades of blue but both in black peacoats. The taller and, clearly, the older one is dressed in a somber navy blue pencil skirt and white shirt. She has flat, elegant facial features and a hard stare. Her long, dark hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail. Self-consciously, I touch my own, slightly less streamlined pony tail and behold the wonder of the girl who got an honorable mention from the mayor of fucking Orlando: Elodie Nguyen.

So, the girl next to her -- the smaller one, dressed in charcoal grey pants and a turquoise blouse, with the same elegant features but livelier and friendlier eyes -- must be her little sister, Isabelle.

“Hi,” begins Elodie, her voice clear and strong and a little bit high, like a bell. “My name is Elodie and this is my sister, Isabelle. We’re here for the interviews.” Dallas smiles and steps forward. I copy his genial grin and move beside him. 

“Yeah, of course. I’m Dallas, and this is my associate, Ruby.” He extends his hand. Elodie takes it and shakes it. When she shakes my hand, I feel about half of the bones in my hand break. For a second, I think she’s being sort of shady, but then I realize that she probably doesn’t know her own wondrous strength. Dallas makes eye contact with Isabelle and holds out his hand for her. “And you, Isabelle. It’s a pleasure.” She looks at him briefly and looks, quickly and maybe a little uncomfortably, away. She doesn’t shake his hand, but she gives him a shy grin. 

“Likewise.” A flicker of disappointment passes over Dallas’s face. However, it disappears as quickly as it came, and we step back to let them in. 

“Ah, let’s go in. We have some sandwiches and iced tea, if you’d like?” 

Elodie says she’ll pass, but Isabelle speaks up.“Iced tea? It’s early December.” 

My face burns hotly, but thankfully Dallas comes to my rescue. “It’s all Ruby knows how to make.” 

Forget what I said about him coming to my rescue. He turns his attention to Elodie. “Elodie, your interview is scheduled first, so if you’d like to come with us to the parlor. Isabelle, make yourself comfortable out here, and we’ll see you shortly.” Dallas ushers us inside the parlor, taking his seat on the blue recliner. I sit on the gray armchair beside him, while Elodie settles herself gracefully on the couch across the coffee table. I pick up the legal pad and pen I’ve been using for all the interviews while Dallas balances a black journal on his knee and wiggles a pen in between his fingers. He looks at me. I look at him. Then, I give him a little nod.  _ Go ahead.  _ He winks. 

“So, Elodie,” he says, his voice oozing professionalism. “What brought you here today?” Elodie has shed her coat, draped it on the back of the cushion, revealing some really, really impressive biceps that could probably snap me in half. She looks at both of us and blinks slowly. “A cab.” 

Dallas gapes, and I let out a definitely unprofessional snort. Meanwhile, Elodie sits on the couch, fingers interlocked, posture perfect, the smallest smile playing on her lips. Dallas recovers and clears his throat. 

“I mean, why did you apply for this position?”

“We used to live in Florida,” says Elodie. “But my parents -- they’re psychologists -- got an offer for a ten-year study at the McKinley Institute here, so we moved up here. Because of Isabelle’s disability, we wanted to work somewhere that will both accommodate her and treat her like any other kid, and we figured that finding a small agency would work best.”

“She’s disabled?” I ask. Elodie nods. 

“She has autism. That’s why she didn’t look you in the eye or shake your hand. It’s just one of her things.” Her stare softens, and then hardens once again, something stronger than iron glinting behind it: protectiveness. “She’s intelligent, though. Smarter than anyone I know.”

“I’m sure she is,” replies Dallas. “But I want to talk about  _ you _ .” He looks at me and nods once, which is our signal for “take over.”

“Yeah, um,” I say ungracefully. Thankfully, Dallas hands me the manila folder, and I fish her resume out from the mess. “Particularly this key to the city of Orlando. What’s that about?” Elodie actually blushes a little and fidgets her thumbs.

“Um, long story short, the Haunted Mansion ride at Disney World -- you know the one?” Dallas does, but I don’t. “It was actually haunted, but nobody knew that -- they just ride the ride for the thrill of what it’s like to be an agent, to be around ghosts and stuff, you know? -- and the Poltergeist stopped the ride. And, um, I got everyone out, found this necklace that had fallen out of someone’s pocket that morning. Of course, the necklace belonged to their dead grandmother. I used my own silver necklace that my parents bought for me before I went to Porter, circled it up, and…” She trails off. “You know, I’ve told this story so many times, but I actually have the key with me.” She reaches under her neckline and pulls out a gleaming silver key on a silver chain. Dallas leans back in his chair and scribbles something in his journal. He flashes the page at me, and it reads, in all caps: HOLY SHIT. With as straight of a face as I can muster, I write back: DUDE I KNOW. A little giggle escapes his mouth.

“Um.” We turn back to Elodie, who now sits a little bit awkwardly, tucking the necklace back into her shirt. “Am I interrupting something?” 

We sober up, zipping right back to professional mode. 

“No, of course not,” assures Dallas. “Miss Nguyen, so far you’ve shown that you have the stuff to be successful here at Crawford Investigations. You have the skill and the wit and the reputation. We’re almost done with the interview, but we have just one more component.” Dallas turns and grabs a wooden box on the end table next to him. “You don’t mind, do you?” 

“Of course not.”

“It’s protocol for all psychic investigation agent interviews in all agencies in America,” I say as Dallas opens the box and removes two items from inside. One is a man’s watch, as brassy as Dallas’s hair and very expensive. The next is a used sneaker -- worn down to to the soles, ratty, caked in dirt. Like if you plopped a homeless person next to one of those Wall Street yuppies. Personally, I appreciate the juxtaposition. Dallas shuts the box again and leans back.

“Now, what’s your shtick?”

“I’m Keen-Eared.”

“Wonderful. So is Ruby. I’m Keen-Eyed, so we’ll have a nice balance. Now, tell me what you Hear from the Rolex.” Elodie reaches forward for the watch and reaches for the watch. She cradles it in her lap, shuts her eyes, and breathes once in and once out.

Here’s a little trade secret that agents pass around. No two Keen-Ears have the same listening face. The “listening face” refers to the face you make when you’re trying to hone in on that one little sound bite -- that growl, that sob, that scream -- that’ll point you to the Intruder. Dallas tells me that mine looks like halfway between a sneeze and a catatonic state. Elodie’s is interesting and a reflection of what I’ve gathered from her personality so far: Intense focus -- like she’s mustering all her might to take a mighty shit -- and a little bit of rage. She breathes slowly. For a second, her lips twitch up into a smile, but that’s soon replaced by a flicker of fear. Slowly, her empty hand rises up, and presses to her chest, which is heaving with labored breaths. A small whimper escapes her mouth, and her eyes fly open. She wobbles a little bit, and Dallas rises to help her, but she waves him away. She regards the Rolex like she’s regarding a ticking bomb and sets it back down next to the sneaker. 

“A good strong, belly laugh,” she begins, looking at a spot just above my ear and not at either of us. “An orchestra too. A bunch of people singing. What’s that called? A chorus? A-And I feel fear, pain. Someone calling my name, but I can’t see who it is, but I know it’s my son.” She makes eye-contact with Dallas, who sits casually, ankle-on-knee, resting his chin in his hand, watching her speak, his face -- for once -- guarded. “It’s … Is this your father’s?”

By now you know that Dallas’s mother is Angeline Crawford, heir to Fairfax Irons. But Dallas’s  _ dad _ , Peter Crawford, passed away when Dallas was nine. I remember it well, mostly because it was so hard on Dallas. He was undeniably, irrefutably, and irrevocably Peter Crawford’s son. Same shining blond hair and honest brown eyes. Same upstanding height and good-humor. Same golden voice and dedication to the theatre. Actually, it’s funny -- well, it’s not  _ funny  _ as much as it is  _ fitting  _ \-- that Peter Crawford died in the middle of a matinee of  _ Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella.  _ Heart attack. If you guessed that it was Dallas crying out for his father, you’d be correct.

Now, Dallas sits forward and reaches for the watch. Replacing it in the box, he gives Elodie a small, sad smile. “It was.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“No worries. Now, would you mind picking up the sneaker and telling me what you Hear?” Elodie obliges, and the same sequence of reactions occurs: She smiles, she grimaces, she reaches up for the afflicted body part, and opens her eyes. She sets the sneaker back down on the table. 

“I was at a basketball game, courtside. Not a professional game, but somewhere in the city, outside. Someone was cheering next to me, very loud and very proud. It was embarrassing. Loud music. Jesus,  _ really  _ loud music. Screeching tires. I felt my neck snap, and that was it.” Dallas puts the sneaker back in the box and shuts it. He looks at me, nods once. I clear my throat.

“Very good, Elodie. I think that’s all we have time for, as far as the interview goes.” I look to Dallas. “Dallas, do you have anymore questions?”

“No, I think we’ve covered everything.” We stand up, shaking hands vigorously, exchanging pleasantries. He sends Elodie out into the hallway, asks her to send Isabelle in in about two minutes.

“Why don’t you take the lead on Isabelle’s interview?” Dallas asks. “She’s interviewing for the role of junior researcher, and that’s your thing.” A not-so-subtle snort bursts outta me. 

“What?”

“‘For the role of junior researcher.’ Are we casting now for Crawford Investigations: The Musical? Is that a casting couch?”

“Well, first of all, that would be a boring musical. Second, I hope to sweet God that’s not a casting couch because sex and romance aren’t my thing. Also, that’d be super unprofessional. And then third --” Before he can continue, the door creaks open. A dark-haired head pokes through; Isabelle.

“Hello?” Dallas takes a seat and looks at me pointedly. I sigh and smile.

“Isabelle, hi. Take a seat. Tea, sandwiches?” She shakes her head and sits on the couch, back straight and tall, but her small fingers fidget with the hem of her shirt. I grab her resume and begin.

“So, top of your class at the Porter Academy.” Fuck. How do I make a question out of that. I grapple for a second and look to Dallas. He holds up one finger and spins it in a circle:  _ Keep going _ . Helpful, Dallas. “Um, h-how big was your class?”

“Seventy-five.”

“Pretty impressive. And you were on the Dean’s List too? For every semester for five years?” She nods, a small little smile blossoming on her face. “Great. So, uh, um … Tell me a little bit about yourself. Something that’s not on the resume but is something you really like about yourself.” There’s a beat of silence where she thinks and I wait.

“People underestimate me,” she says at last. 

“Do they?”

“They think I’m dumb, but I’m smarter than every one of them. It’s like my secret weapon.” Um. I don’t really know how to take that. Like, what do you say to that? I tap the pen against the notepad anxiously.

“Interesting. So, um, Isabelle, you’ll be working with me, if you get the role -- the  _ job  _ as junior researcher. Do you work well with a partner?”

“Well,” she begins, this time making direct eye contact with me. “You seem smart, and you’re nice, so I don’t think I’ll have any trouble.”

“Perfect. Well, um …” Thankfully, Dallas swoops in to save me from my stutter. Jesus Christ, am I bad at this. 

“Since you’re applying for junior researcher, we won’t test your Gift today. But, just for the record, what is your gift?”

“Keen-Eyed.” Dallas makes a note in his journal and grins. “Me too.” When he looks up, he nods at me. We stand, forgoing handshakes for friendly smiles. 

“Well, Isabelle,” I say. “I think we had a good time. I mean, a good interview. If you’d like to join your sister out in the hallway, we’ll call you both back when we’re done.” When the door falls shut, Dallas turns to me, his eyes sparkling. 

“You know we hit the motherfucking jackpot, right?” he asks, bouncing a little bit. His enthusiasm is, as always, infectious, and a laugh bubbles up from my chest. I hold up both hands. 

“High fives?” He hoots and delivers on the high-fives, rapidly smacking his palms against mine. He bursts into laughter -- the full, Viking-esque one -- and I have to shush him. You know, professionalism and all that. And it strikes me then that this is really happening. We’re up and running. Crawford Investigations is no longer just two best friends trying to escape the corporate beast, but two young entrepreneurs with their own business still trying to escape the corporate beast. Crawford Investigations is now a bona fide agency. Dallas sobers up and opens the door to the hallway, gesturing for me to walk through. The Nguyen sisters stand there. Elodie’s face is guarded, like she’s expecting the worst -- for us to send them packing, tell them they’re not wanted, and after what I can imagine is years of people underestimating, not her, but her sister, I don’t blame her -- but Isabelle; she’s buzzing with excitement. Unlike every other agent, somehow Isabelle is unjaded. Despite the hardships that have hardened Elodie, she has hope. It warms me. It reminds me of Dallas. 

“Isabelle. Elodie…” Dallas, with his usual flair for dramatics, dangles what they’re waiting for in the air, right above them, his face straight. Then, like the sun breaking over the skyline, he smiles. “Welcome to Crawford Investigations.”


	3. Missing Persons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some news is delivered, and more news is delivered, and more news is delivered.

Whatever aura of professionalism Dallas and I had possessed followed Elodie and Isabelle right out the door after their tour and orientation. The living room had been a shining monument to the American Dream: You work your ass off only to fall right on it, get fired -- and then open your own business just to spite everyone. Now, it’s a monument to the other side of America: A discarded box of donuts, cartons of Chinese, a two-liter of cherry soda, burger wrappers, the like -- all of them littered around the living room as Dallas and I sit on the couch opposite the TV, watching the news. Well, Dallas is watching it. I’m trying to sleep. Key word there being  _ trying _ . This is how Crawford Investigations celebrates: Gluttony and laziness. Anyway, just as I’m about to doze off, Dallas pokes me with the end of his chopstick. 

“Hey,” he mutters. “Are you seeing this?” My eyelids flutter open. The screen is split into two: There’s a white lady on the left half, standing in Times Square, sharply-dressed, clutching an umbrella in one hand and a microphone in the other. Composed and poised, which is juxtaposed by the mob behind her. About a good two-hundred people have gathered, hoisting picket signs with catchy slogans like: MONEY < HUMAN LIFE and FUCK THE AGENCIES and THIS IS BULLSHIT THESE KIDS RISK THEIR LIVES ON A DAILY BASIS AND WHEN THEY DIE YOU DON’T EVEN CARE. You know, the fun, concise stuff you can put on a bumper sticker and sell. In the right half is a black man in a suit, behind the news’ anchor desk.

“Daniel, I’m here in Times Square where the protests against the major agencies like McKinley and Zhang are reaching a boiling point,” says the woman onscreen. The crowd chants behind her, something angry and impassioned that I can’t quite make out. 

“Theresa, do you have any idea what they’re protesting?” asks Daniel from the safety of his desk.

“Well, just two days ago, the state of New York created and passed legislation that no longer requires big agencies -- or agencies of any size for that matter -- to provide fiscal compensation for the families of fallen agents. The bill also allows agencies to discriminate based on ability. This means that cadets with physical or mental abilities aren’t guaranteed a job when they graduate.”

“Now I see why Elodie and Isabelle didn’t want to work for a corporation,” says Dallas, turning the volume down.

“Yeah,” I yawn. I should probably get home before curfew, but damn, is this couch warm. 

“You know what?” Dallas says abruptly. He hauls himself upright and turns the TV off. “This makes me really mad. For some of these families, the agents are the breadwinners. The economy is in the tank, the unemployment rate is almost as high as it was in the Great Depression, parents are out of jobs, so they send their kids to work and to possibly die, because it’s the only way they can feed everyone else. They literally have no other choice.” I have to duck to avoid one his wild, flying hands. “And then the kid dies trying to protect their hometown and the big-shot CEOs who turn their backs on the families of the fallen agents. I-It’s fucking despicable! It makes me want to knock on every penthouse door and yell in their faces. This corruption at its worst. That sign was right! This is money being favored over human life! Oh, and don’t even get me started on the whole “right to refuse employment” because Isabelle has a disability and she is smarter than anyone out there. It just makes me so  _ mad _ .” He flops back against the couch, folding his arms. His lips are pursed, and there’s a twitching muscle in his jaw. He lowers his eyes so I can’t see them, but I know he’s tearing up. Dallas Crawford -- he has a big heart, and he’s not afraid to let it run him for a while. I sit up and put a hand on his shoulder. 

“I know, Dally.” He reaches up and grabs my hand, holds it in his. 

“What about agents that are severely wounded on the job too?” He continues. “Like Seth? He’s never gonna be able to work in the field again. Nobody’s going to hire him, and he was injured on  _ their  _ watch, but they don’t care!” My heart sinks at the mention of Seth’s name. 

“Dallas, I know.” Suddenly, Dallas is on his feet, somehow looking like a man on a mission and yet entirely lost. 

“We should go see him.” His voice is low, his tone decisive. I stand too. 

“No. He told us he needed space,” I counter. He shakes his head and starts toward the door. I’m right on his heels as he grabs a coat from his bedroom. 

“He doesn’t know what he needs,” he says. He tosses me an old wool coat of his. “He’s in a bad place right now, and he needs us now more than ever.” Should I have told Dallas that our best friend never wants to see us again? Probably. Will I tell Dallas that before we’re on the train to Alphabet City? Probably not. Once he gets an idea, he won’t let go of it, no matter how hare-brained or impractical. Shrugging the coat on, I follow him out into the hallway and grab the back of his coat, which is the equivalent of trying to stop a moving freight train with one hand. But even Dallas has trouble dragging my fat ass anywhere, so he yields and turns to me. 

“Look,” I begin, ready to reason with the beast. “I miss him like hell, Dallas, but we have to respect what he wants.” 

“No,” he growls. “He doesn’t know what he wants. He needs to see us. No man is an island, and he’s just been through a traumatic, life-altering experience and just expects us to let him suffer alone?” He shakes his head, less in defiance and more in denial. In that second, I see a kid without his best friend, and my heart breaks for him.

I reach my hand out to grasp his. “Dallas …” But he sidesteps past me and down the hallway.

“I’m going.” He strides out the door and to the lobby of our building, the doorman having long abandoned his post. With a  long-suffering sigh, I follow him out into the dying light.

The cab ride there is frigid. Even the driver -- one of those burly folks who are the only ones willing to drive the nighttime cabs -- after attempting to make polite and trite conversation sputters into silence. Dallas sits with his hands folded in his lap, his long legs nearly tucked up against his chest in this goddamn clown car.

_ Now _ , a part of me whispers.  _ Just tell him now. It’s like ripping a bandage off. Then you can go home _ . It’s a nice thought, but it won’t happen. I let go of a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and rest my head against the seat.

All too soon, we’ve arrived at the Underwoods’ home on Avenue B. Dallas marches up the steps to the quaint little townhouse and raps his knuckles sharply against the door. The street is silent. Dusk is falling. If I Listen closely, far off are the emerging whispers of the dead, waking as the light dies. We stand outside on the stoop for a while, waiting. Most people are hesitant to answer their doors at dusk, but the door flies open. A harrowed white man stands in the threshold in a food-stained fleece robe. His curly brown hair is streaked with gray, and the blue eyes behind his glasses are bloodshot: Mr. Underwood -- a civil rights attorney and Seth’s father. 

“Uh, hi, Mr. Underwood,” Dallas says awkwardly. Mr. Underwood stares. 

“Have you seen him?” He whispers, leaning against the doorframe. 

“Uh, seen who?”

“Mr. Underwood, what’s the matter?” I say. He opens his mouth, about to speak, when his wife -- Adhira Underwood -- appears over his shoulder, nudging him gently out of the way. He looks as equally as harassed as her husband, her dark hair tied up in a ratty ponytail, pieces of it hanging into her bright, dark eyes, her brown skin unwashed. 

“Hi, Dallas, Ruby,” she says in her soft little voice, but there’s sadness in it. “It’s so nice to see you.” I feel like every nerve in my body’s being stepped on by fire ants, but there’s that sinking rock of dread falling into my stomach. 

“Mrs. Underwood, what’s going on?” I ask. Mr. Underwood wraps his arms around his wife and buries his face in her shoulder. Dallas and I exchange glances. Neither of us have ever seen Seth’s parents like this, so harried and unkempt and fragile.

“Seth went missing…” begins Mrs. Underwood. My heart drops into my feet. Dallas grasps my forearm like a vice. I can’t look at him. Good God, I can’t look at him. “Two days ago … We’re guessing he stepped out to take a walk and … He never made it home.” Mr. Underwood’s head shoots up and he stares out at the streets, furious, blaming him for taking his son.

“A blind kid,” he hisses. “Taking a walk. What good’s that gonna go him? He can’t even see.”

“He can still hear,” I blurt. “And smell, and … Um, walk? It’s good exercise.” Beside me, Dallas groans quietly. My face burns. 

“We were hoping you’d seen him.” Mrs. Underwood stares at us, and boy, do I want to tell her that I’ve seen her son and that he’s okay but I can’t lie to her but, God, I just want her to not _ look like that _ . I hear Dallas inhale deeply as he regains his composure. He releases my arm and steps forward, placing a hand on Mrs. Underwood’s shoulder. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Underwood,” he says, his voice low and steady. His leader voice. The voice that makes you feel like, someway, somehow, everything is going to be all right. “What can we do to help you?” She sniffles as tears well up in her eyes. 

“We already filed a missing person's report, and they’re looking for him as we speak. The most we can do is let everything go back to normal as best as we can… And wait for our boy to come home.” Dallas nods. 

“We’re … We’re so sorry. We’ll keep an eye out for him.” I nod, my tongue tied in my mouth and my head grasping for the words to make them feel better, but how can I do that when I feel like I’m falling apart. Mr. and Mrs. Underwood express their thanks. Dallas reaches in the pocket of his coat and pulls out a small paper card. He hands it to Mrs. Underwood.

“Call us if you need anything.” 

Mrs. Underwood flips it around and reads it, and then I realize that it’s a business card. “What is ‘Crawford Investigations?’”

Dallas smiles. “Our new agency. Ruby and I run it.” 

Mr. Underwood purses his lips. “Seems kind of dangerous to have children running around without supervisors.”

“It’s actually more dangerous to have people without Gifts getting in the way,” I counter. The air stiffens, and Dallas’s deep sigh spirals up in the freezing December air. 

“Well, once again,” Dallas says. “We’re here for you. We love Seth and we’ll do anything we can to keep him safe.” Mr. Underwood sniffles and Mrs. Underwood nods her thanks. We exchange sniffly goodbyes, handshakes, tender hugs. Then, Dallas and I depart, trudging through the deepening snow. Somber. Beside me, Dallas is quiet. Generally, Dallas has no qualms against showing how he feels. Any emotion he feels, he wears on his sleeve. But sometimes, when what he’s feeling is too big to express, too terrible for words, he’s unreadable. We walk in silence until a nighttime cab whizzes down the road. I snag it at the last second, and we shuffle into the backseat. It speeds down the road, toward Hudson Heights. Still Dallas is quiet. Still, that rock of dread weighs me down, and I look out the window, and I think about Seth. About his soft curling brown hair falling into his startling blue eyes, dressed in his McKinley field agent uniform that he only wore once, standing slim and dauntless against the horrors of the night. And his calloused hand in mine and the weight of his head on my shoulder and his cackling laugh, the swoosh of butterflies in my stomach when he kissed me the night after graduation. Yet, stronger than anything I remember, I feel a mounting wave of panic, watching the snow pile up on the sidewalks and the burning chill of the winter air. He’s out there somewhere. Alone. Cold.  _ Blind _ .

After what feels like an eon of waiting, we arrive back to the office. Numbly, Dallas stalks into the kitchen, muttering something about making us hot chocolate. I sit on the couch, the snow in my hair melting, motionless and thoughtless. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting there before there’s a crash of ceramic breaking and a shouting curse. I rush into the kitchen, words of concern that die immediately on my lips when I see Dallas, kneeling next to the shattered mug of hot chocolate. His face is hidden, but his broad shoulders tremble. I kneel by his side, and grab his hand. He looks up at me with bloodshot, teary eyes. This is all it takes for my eyes to get teary, and he rests his head against my shoulder, sniffling. His hand finds mine, and we sit together on the kitchen floor of our business and mourn and wonder and worry for the safety of our friend. We sit together in the silence of our grief, but there’s a little tugging that compels me to tell him the truth. So I do. 

“I lied,” I admit. The silence fractures and the air tenses. He picks his head up.

“What?” 

“When I said that Seth said he just wanted some space for a while, I lied.” Dallas sits back on his haunches and stares. “Are you mad?”

“No, I just don’t know what you mean.” So then I tell him what Seth told me. Slowly, he wilts, his face crumpling. 

“Why would you keep that from me?” His voice breaks. I scooch closer and reach for him. 

“Dallas, I’m sorry. I thought --” He springs to his feet and backs away.

“Well, whatever you thought, it was wrong. I may not have been Seth’s little …” He gestures scathingly at me. “Whatever the hell you guys were, but I was -- I  _ am  _ his best friend.” 

“I know that! That’s why I didn’t tell you, because I knew it would hurt you.” He stares down at me, contempt twisting his face. For the first time in his life, Dallas is scaring me. “Dallas,  _ talk  _ to me.”

“I don’t want to talk anymore.” He leaves the room and me alone on the floor. 

“Dallas, come on.” I follow him out and into his room, where he sits hunched on his bed., his fingers knotted together. “Dallas, you’re not seriously going to ignore me, are you?” Still quiet. 

“It’s too late for you now to take the train home,” he says at last. He can’t look at me. “Stay the night. On the cot in the office.” He reaches into his closet and tosses an old sweatshirt and basketball shorts my way. When he finally looks at me, he’s not angry anymore -- at least, not apparently. No, he’s blank, unreadable. He points toward his bedroom door, meaning that I should leave. He shuts the door behind me as I walk into the office next door. The clothes Dallas gave me fit him when he was eleven, but I still drown in them, but they’re warm under the blankets. As I lay down on the cot, the lamp on the desk still lit, my mind buzzes like a hornet’s nest. Somewhere, out there, in the midst of the sirens and in the glow of the ghost-lamps and in the dirty snow, is Seth. Alone. Seth.  _ Blind _ .

I sit straight up, shoving the covers off. Nope. Sleep is not gonna happen, not while I know Seth is out there somewhere. Alone. A naive, Dallas-esque voice in my head tells me to consider that he might be indoors somewhere, in a homeless shelter, but I shake the thought out of my head. It’s a nice thought. It’s an  _ unrealistic  _ thought.

Then, all the helplessness I felt what feels like years ago, back on the Underwoods’ stoop, hardens into something like iron. I rise, put on some real pants and my boots and my wool coat, strapping the holster and my gun to my waist. Soon, I’m outside of our building on the empty street, looking up and down. No cars, no people, no movement. Nothing but the rush of winter air, the revolving light of the ghost-lamp on the corner by the deli, the faint whispers of the dead come back for the night. A wave of fear threatens to overtake me; I’m about to walk into the haunted streets of New York City on my own, after curfew, without backup, without  _ Dallas _ . But that fear hardens into steely resolve. 

_ You promised the Underwoods that you’d help their son _ , I remind myself.  _ So do something. _

_ The city’s so big _ , another part of me counters.  _ What makes you think you will find him?  _

Here’s the thing: I don’t. But getting out of the house and looking for him -- actually doing something -- is better than resignation and weeping. So, with my back against safety, facing the dangers of the night, I pick a direction -- why not left? -- and slip silent and unseen into the darkness. 


	4. The First Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ruby sleeps in and jeopardizes her job and her friendships.

I continue to sneak out after curfew every night for a week. Whether I spend the night at the office or sleep at home, after everyone has gone to bed, I redress, go out, and look for Seth. How’s that been going? Fruitlessly. I almost got caught two nights ago -- A cop car had pulled around the corner. Foolishly, I’d thought the headlights were just the ghost-lamp on the corner and stayed out on the street. By the time I’d realized what it truly was, I’d had just a fraction of a second to leap into an alley. Thankfully, I hadn’t been caught, but it was a wakeup call: I wouldn’t be able to find Seth if I got my ass thrown in jail.

Besides that close encounter, despite what I had initially thought, the other homeless people in the area aren’t very helpful. Most of them are asleep while I’m out walking. Naturally, they don’t like to be woken up.  One of them thought -- and I’m not surprised by it -- that I was an Intruder and pulled a very illegal rapier out of his sleeping bag. Since then I’ve learned to just let them be. None of them have turned out to be Seth anyway.

So, that’s how I spent my nights. It’s really affected how I spend my days, which means being chronically late to work, much to Dallas’s chagrin. But what’s he gonna do? Fire me? Bitch, I’m half of his operation. He’d be lost without me. Still, I should show up on time, but there are more pressing things at hand.

The morning after my first full week of searching, I walk from home to work, enjoying the break of sunshine in the dead of winter. Icicles hanging from skeletal trees melt, dripping water onto the heads of people heading off to work in the morning, shaking the fear from the night before off of their slumped shoulders. Unlike the rest of them, I now walk with a spring in my step. Usually, on cases, I am a total fucking wuss. I do shit like sticking to Dallas’s side, jumping at the slightest of noises. But since I’ve started my nightly regimen of breaking curfew and walking the streets alone and barely armed, I’ve become more confident in myself. It’s a nice change.

I wave at Bernie -- our doorman -- as I walk into our building. He waves a liver-spotted hand in my general vicinity, not looking up from whatever it is he’s reading behind the counter. When I walk into our offices, Dallas, Elodie, and Isabelle are gathered around the kitchen table, eating grilled cheese sandwiches. Elodie faces the door and is the first person to notice me, then Isabelle, and then Dallas, who doesn’t make eye contact, but still has definitely seen me.

“Morning,” I greet them as nonchalantly as I can. Elodie nods, Isabelle waves, Dallas does nothing.

“It’s noon,” he grumbles, pretending he’s totally invested in his sandwich.

“Uh, yeah, sorry about that.” And then realization hits me like a brick, and a wave of embarrassment crashes over me. I smack my forehead with my palm. “Oh my God. I missed the client interview.”

“No problem,” says Dallas. He looks at me now. “Elodie filled in for you.” He raises an eyebrow, as if to say  _ while you couldn’t even show up _ . It’s too hard to look at him. 

“Um, thanks,” I say, thanking Elodie sheepishly. I set my backpack on the floor and sink into the chair next to Dallas. He shifts away from me. Jesus, he’s still mad that I didn’t tell him about Seth. For all Dallas’s goodness, he is petty as fuck. And so a tense and heavy silence fills the air. Elodie stares at Dallas and I with scrutiny. She’s noticed the frigidness between us -- Thankfully, she doesn’t say anything. My face burning, I clear my throat. “So, what did I miss?”

“The Morris-Jumel Mansion,” Isabelle answers, a smile spreading across her face. I sit back in my chair, astonished, and spread my hands out on the table. 

“Whoa, really?” She nods vigorously. “That’s some serious stuff.” Dallas still isn’t looking at me, so I tap the table in front of him with two fingers. He looks up at me. “What do they want us for?”

“Well,” he begins. “Due to the success of a certain smash-hit Broadway musical,  _ Ha _ \--”

“He almost cried,” interjects Isabelle, glowing with humor. Dallas’s face flushes red. Elodie smiles wickedly, relishing his embarrassment. 

“Yeah, it was sort of embarrassing,” Elodie jibes. “And unprofessional.”

“I wasn’t  _ that  _ excited,” he grumbles. “Give me some credit. Anyway, the City wants the house reopened to the public for tours and stuff. Problem is, it’s super super haunted. By the ghost of Eliza Jumel --”

“The woman who owned it and Aaron Burr’s second wife,” Isabelle blurts. 

“Right,” continues Dallas. “And by some rebel soldiers from the Revolutionary War.” Isabelle turns to me, pushing her sandwich plate aside. 

“Ruby, did you know that the Morris-Jumel Mansion was headquarters to both the British and the American forces? George Washington stayed there!” Oh, my God. Her face is so open and enthusiastic. That’s the beauty of Isabelle: Despite the hardships of being an agent, she still relishes everything she does. Her energy is infectious, and I find myself smiling without meaning to.

“That’s super cool, Isabelle.”

“So,” Elodie says. “The City figured, with the success of the musical, why not open Aaron Burr’s old house? It’d bring in more revenue to the city, create jobs for adults -- maintenance, management, stuff like that. And they hired us to do it.”

“This is …” I begin, leaning back in my chair, folding my arms. “Oddly high-profile for our first major case.” 

“Dakota arranged it for us,” Dallas says. He drops his gaze when I look at him. His CEO of an older brother got us this case? Since when are we building our business around his privilege? Oh, I have some choice words I want to say, and he knows it, so he can’t bring himself to look at me. Instead of giving him a good rollicking, I smile graciously. “Oh. Great.” 

Dallas breaths a near-silent sigh of relief. I continue, “Do we even have the manpower for this? We only have four agents. Most teams for a job this size have around six agents on hand.”

“We’ll worry about that later. Right now, I want you and Isabelle to go to the NYDPI Archives and see if you can order any files on the Morris-Jumel Mansion. See if there are any other deaths in the house or in the area that might give us some trouble.” He rises from his seat.    
“Elodie and I will go --”

“If you don’t mind,” Elodie interjects. “I think I’m gonna go with Isabelle and Ruby. It’s a big job.” Dallas wilts a little bit but schools his features into something a little less transparent.

“Yeah, that’s, um, fine. I’ll just go look at the grounds myself.” Poor Dallas. He’s such a social butterfly that having to do anything by himself is excruciatingly boring. “Can we all agree to meet back here by five?” We agree. Dallas is the first one in his coat and out the door. While Elodie and Isabelle get their coats on, I step into the office to grab some extra pens and our official agency credentials, so the desk lady doesn’t think we’re just a couple of kids dicking around. When I turn to leave, Elodie stands in the doorway, silent and unmoving, scaring the shit out of me. 

“Hey,” she says over the thumping of my heart. “Listen. The only reason why I insisted on coming is because Isabelle can be a little wily at times, and you haven’t been around her long enough to know how to react.” 

“That makes sense,” I reply, nodding. However, I am disappointed that the real reason why she wanted to come wasn’t so she could hang out with me. I don’t have very many friends. In fact, I only really have the one, and he’s mad at me right now.

We meet Isabelle at the door and the three of us hop on the train to the Civic Area. On the last leg of our journey, after switching trains a couple of times, we find ourselves in the same car as a group of teenage girls in burnt orange jackets -- agent jackets -- but without a pellet gun or a bayonet: Vasquez girls. The Vasquez Academy is a private psychic investigations school. Not too selective but not too popular, seeing as all they teach there are non confrontational means of eradication. Which is cool, I guess. It’s just never made much sense to me to stand defenseless in front of a malignant creature that probably will kill you and try to reason with it. But to each their own, I guess. One of the girls, an older, tall, dark-skinned girl with big, curly, natural hair -- who I’m guessing is the leader of the group, just by her position slightly away from the posse -- stands silent and vigilant and untouchable. It’s not until she catches me that I realize I’ve been staring. I smile awkwardly and turn away. When I look back, she’s eyeing the guns at our hips and our dark, somber clothing. I try to look away, but she speaks to me over the din of the car.

“What agency are you from?” she asks, her voice rougher and lower than I expected. Her girls all snap their attention toward the three of us. The Nguyen sisters look up from their novels and to this girl. 

“Us? Oh, uh, we’re from C-Crawford Investigations.” Fuck me and my stuttering tongue. My face burns. It feels like a thousand eyes have turned their gaze to me, casting all their judgement on me. But it’s only the Vasquez girl who looks at me. Her girls have lost interest and go back to talking. 

“I haven’t heard of that one,” she says.

“We opened about a week ago,” Elodie says. God bless. Miss Vasquez cocks her head. 

“Really? Where are you based?”

“Up in Hudson Heights,” I say, before Elodie can say anything. “I’m Ruby Rosario, the senior researcher. This is Elodie Nguyen, junior field agent, and her sister Isabelle, junior researcher.” Miss Vasquez smiles in greeting. Isabelle waves. Elodie tosses her a cordial nod.

“How many of you are there?” she asks.

“Four. The other one is Dallas. He’s senior field agent. He actually also runs the agency.”

Miss Vasquez blinks. “‘Runs,’” she says. “As in he’s the head bitch of the group or he actually runs it?”

“No, I’m head bitch,” Elodie replies, shutting her novel. “She means that Dallas actually owns and runs the business.” Miss Vasquez’s eyes widen, and her girls fall silent again, staring at us. 

“By himself?” she asks. I nod.

“I’m technically deputy but --”

“No supervisors?”

“Not one in sight.”

“Isn’t that sort of dangerous?”

“I don’t think so,” Isabelle says brightly. “I think it’s more dangerous to have adults in the field. They don’t have a Gift, so they’re basically useless in a fight. They just get in the way, and that’s part of our philosophy.” 

Miss Vasquez sits back in her seat. “Huh,” she says thoughtfully. The train pulls to a stop. She and her girls stand and file out the door, Miss Vasquez bringing up the rear. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Crawford Investigations.”

“It was nice to meet you, …?” Isabelle says, the sentence left hanging. 

“Josie. Josie Temple.” She steps through the door after the rest of the girl and disappears into the throng of people on the train platform, waving over her shoulder. 

“Great. Nice to meet you, Josie,” I say to her retreating figure, my words falling on deaf ears. Elodie smirks.

“They received it better than I thought they might,” I say once the train stutters into motion. Elodie shrugs. 

“It’s ‘cause they’re kids,” she says. “They won’t get offended when we call supervisors ‘useless,’ probably because they all secretly agree with it anyway.” That’s a good point, and I move my head to tell her that, but she and her sister are already immersed in their novels again. With a sigh, I lean my head against the shuddering window. Talking has never really been my thing. Dallas once said it’s because my brain moves too quickly for my tongue to follow. But he’s too goddamn nice. I’m just inept. And that’s okay. I breathe deeply, clutch my backpack to my chest, and close my eyes until we arrive at the next stop.

In relation to my conversation attempts on the way there, our trip to the Archives is a success. The three of us come back to No. 3, our arms laden with photocopies of articles on the Morris-Jumel Mansion, a little after five. By the time I’ve organized the papers, the sun has begun its descent over New York City, and the Nguyen sisters are walking out the door with Dallas waving them good night from the doorstep. His hand eventually falls to his side and his smile fades. He leans back on the doorframe for a while, staring out in the hallway, thinking; about what, I don’t know. He must have heard me step out of the office, because he looks at me like a remorseful Golden Retriever in a sweater vest. He opens his mouth, but before an apology can make everything awkward, I cut him off.

“So, how does Dakota know the managers of the Morris-Jumel House?” He shuts the front door and steps inside.

“He went to school with Miss Howard -- the woman we interviewed, the manager of the house -- and owes her a favor from way back when, so he offered us up for the job.” Dallas sighs. “Which means we’re doing this job at a discount, but that’s fine. We’ll get a lot of publicity, which means more clients, which means we’ll move up in the ranks and show people that agencies don’t need adults to be successful.”

“But that’s a little bit ironic, yeah?” I say, my fist clenching. “To say that agencies don’t need adults, but your twenty-nine-year-old, Giftless CEO brother got us the job?” 

Dallas stands with his arms folded, his jaw tight.“What are you trying to say, Ruby?” There’s a challenge in his voice. 

And then, all the frustration from the past week -- my fight with Dallas, finding out Seth is missing, my failed attempts to find him, my shame at sucking at conversation -- all surges through my body, pushing me closer to Dallas until we’re almost nose-to-nose.

“I’m saying that it’s bullshit that we’re going to Kota for jobs. It’s bullshit that this entire fucking apartment was paid for out of your goddamn trust fund.”

“Watch your language,” Dallas mutters.

“Oh, and that’s another thing. Since when are  _ you _ the boss, huh?” I jab his chest with a shaking finger. “Since when is this just  _ your  _ agency? It wouldn’t have even happened without me!”

“Yes, it would have!”

“No, it wouldn’t have! Because your ass can’t focus long enough to read a goddamn lease!” His face twists into a snarl, but I won’t back down.

“It became my agency when  _ you  _ stopped showing up on time. When  _ you  _ started shirking your duties to sleep in.” It’s like he slapped me.

“You don’t even know what I’m going through,” I growl. 

“Oh, I ‘don’t know what you’re going through?’” Someone in apartment No. 4 bangs on the wall, shouts something incomprehensible. “I do,” Dallas says, a little quieter. “You’ve always been like this, Ruby. You’ve always let your insecurities hold you back. I’ve had to hold your hand every step of the way through McKinley and even now, because now that you actually have responsibilities, you’re running away.” The words seem to just come out of him now, like he’s been waiting forever to say them. “Jesus, you can’t even make it through one week of running a business without hiding. And you know why? Because you’re afraid that you’re gonna fuck it up, like you fucked up at the warehouse in Hell’s Kitchen. Like you think you’re gonna fuck up everything else in your life. You’re running away because you’re a coward.” As soon as he says it, he stops, his eyes wide. Hot shame burns in my stomach, angry and embarrassed tears welling up in my eyes, stinging and bitter. I can’t even look at him. I step away.

“Ruby,” he says softly. “I’m --”

“Shut up.” My voice breaks, and my face burns even hotter now. I step around him to the door, reaching for my coat and dodging the hand reaching out for my shoulder. I put on my coat and shoulder my backpack. On my way out, I stop in the doorway and look back at Dallas.

“Sorry I’m a fuck up,” I whisper. His face falls. He swallows thickly. Before he can find a word to say, I’m out on the street and in a cab speeding home. 

Once I’m home, despite my bone-deep fatigue, I don’t sleep. Instead, I change into the darkest clothes that I have, clip my holster and gun to my hip, and slip out the front door, shutting it carefully behind me. The street is empty and silent. A siren breaks it, wailing somewhere else. But louder than that is the echo of Dallas’s words in my head. I shake my head, clearing it of them, and with safety behind me and certain terror ahead, I step silent and unnoticed into the darkness.


	5. Calm Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ruby tells the truth and Crawford Investigations get their first bout of hate mail, among other things.

I’m tempted to show up late to work, just to spite Dallas, but I don’t. Instead, I show up about an hour early, at around six. I almost expect the office to be quiet and Dallas to be sleeping soundly and snugly in his bed. But of course, Dallas is the sort of fucker who wakes up at six in the morning for fun. So, as I kick the snow off my boots on the welcome mat, the sound of salsa music leaks riotously from the kitchen. There’s Dallas, in his PJs, standing over a pan of scrambling eggs. He doesn’t look up, but I can tell by the way his shoulders bunch that he knows I’m there. For a while, it’s just the two of us standing almost still, not wanting to acknowledge the other. I take a seat at the table and pull out yesterday’s edition of the  _ Times.  _ Nothing new. This politician did that thing, that new show opened, this group is protesting that thing, that person had that opinion. Still, the event stealing all the press is the protest in Union Square, which has now branched out to Fifth Avenue, where the offices of McKinley, Zhang, Fairfax US, Crowley Lavender North America, and all the other bigwig agencies and businesses. They’re mad. They have a goddamn right to be. I just wish they’d never been given a reason to be mad, that they’d never been served injustice on a misleadingly silver platter. I sigh and fold the paper up. Like I said, nothing new.

Then a plate appears in the space where the paper was. Scrambled eggs and a side of applesauce. I look up and see Dallas rummaging through the cabinets for silverware. He comes back and hands me a fork and a spoon. A look passes between us, and I know it well. It’s a sort of constipated look, like Dallas was having a hard time just getting all the nasty stuff out -- and by  _ that _ , I mean he looks like he’s about to apologize, but he can’t bring himself to. There’s the mystery of Dallas Augustus Crawford: He bares his every vulnerability without a second thought, but the only emotion he cannot convey is remorse. At least, not verbally. The plate of eggs and applesauce is his apology. While it’s not ideal, it is enough.

Dallas takes a seat across from me, avoiding eye contact while wolfing down his breakfast. As I empty my own plate, my mind wanders to -- no surprise here -- Seth. Again, last night was definitely unsuccessful. Maybe he’s out of the city? I mean, New York is huge and there’s no way I could look in every godforsaken nook and cranny, but still. He’s emotionally out of whack, he’s adjusting to his disability. How far can he go from home?

I steal a glance at Dallas. His plate is empty, yet he stares at his reflection in the white ceramic. His shoulders are still tight. His face is wan. Neither of us like to fight, but there’s some shit that you can’t just un-say. Particularly what he said about Seth, and how I fucked up that night in the warehouse. I don’t … It’s not my fault. I know it isn’t. But still, it hurts to think my best friend thinks I’m such a fuck up. But maybe if I told him about my search for Seth. Maybe he’d understand why I’ve been late for the past week. Maybe he’d see that I do have some control over my life. I might fuck up a lot, but at least I try to make it right. He should know that. And yet, a part of me wants to justify myself, and the person inside of me who I’d like to be tells me that I don’t have to justify myself to him. Or to anybody. But that person isn’t as strong as my crippling anxiety and my need to always be liked. So, shattering the silence like a baseball bat to a vase, I blurt out, “I’ve been looking for Seth.”

This gets Dallas going. He sits straight up, pushes his plate away, and leans over the table. His eyes are tired, but they’re burning with anticipation. “Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Did you find him?”

“Dallas, if I’d found him, I’m pretty sure you would know.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right,” His face scrunches up thoughtfully. “Wait. When do you go looking for him? When do you have time?”

“I do it at night, after work.” Dallas slumps in his seat and wipes a hand over his face.

“That’s why you’ve been coming in late. Oh, God. I’m an asshole.” I reach over and pat his shoulder.

“No, you’re fine.”

“No,” he says. “I-I feel terrible now, knowing that you’ve been walking around this city looking for him.” He pauses and then leans farther over, scrunching his face up even more. “Jesus, Ruby, don’t you know how dangerous that is?”  _ Better than doing nothing _ . Instead of voicing my thoughts, I shrug. He’s still leaning into me. Too intense. I stand up and put my plate in the sink.

“Honestly, I don’t care if it’s dangerous,” I admit. “I feel better when I’m doing something to look for him. It makes me feel…” I swallow and turn away from his expectant gaze. “Like less of a fuck up.” His jaw tightens and he wrings his hands. He’s wounded by that jab, but it makes me feel better to throw that back in his face. We’re quiet now, and around us, I can hear the city roaring back to life as its citizens wait for the sun to rise, as the undead wither and crawl back into their hiding holes until the night.

“I miss him,” Dallas mutters.

“Me too.”

“Do you remember that one time when he snuck a bottle of Jagermeister into the dorms?” Laughter bubbles up in my chest and I let it go. “Oh, I do. That was so dangerous! He could have been caught!” 

Dallas leans back, folds his arms across his chest, and grins. “It wasn’t actually Jagermeister. It was root beer.”

“What?” 

Dallas laughs and covers his widening grin with his hand.“Oh, yeah. He was faking it. Someone told him you like ‘bad boys’ but he couldn’t get his hands on real alcohol, so…” He shrugs. My face burns but a smile grows on my face. “Do you want to know a secret?” he asks. I nod. “I was the one who told him you like bad boys.”

“So you  _ have  _ always been full of shit!” We dissolve into laughter, and for a second, we forget the shadow that’s lurking behind us, of Seth’s absence and of our fight. The laughter fades, and before we can remember who we are and what we’re going through, the handheld landline in the office shrieks. I leave the kitchen and catch it on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Hello?” The voice on the other end is as shrill as a New Jersey housewife but lacking the same bravada. Honestly, the voice has only spoken once and my eardrum is bleeding.

“Um,” I say. “Yes?”

“Is this Crawford Investigations?” 

Shit, probably should have led with that. “Oh. Yeah. It is. How can I help you?”

“Yeah, my name is Denise Alcott and I’ve called with a complaint.” Well, fuck.

“Oh, I’m sorry. How can I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m a long-lost descendant of Eliza Jumel, and I have quite an issue with your agency taking up the case.” Okay, I don’t believe that for a second, but I’m gonna keep her going because I wanna know what kind of person would call and complain about a goddamn case.

“How so?” I prompt.

“The City didn’t even consult the family before going ahead and hiring an agency to come and destroy my grandmother’s spirit.” Oh, Jesus. She’s one of  _ those  _ people. See, most of the population has accepted the fact that Intruders are dangerous. You will be killed if you try to fuck with them. Especially if you’re untrained. Despite this, there are still sects of people -- ignorant, ignorant people -- who believe that the spirits that haunt and intend to kill us are benevolent. They’re a gift from God or the Flying Spaghetti Monster or whatever omniscient deity they do or don’t believe in. We have something to learn from them, they say. Some of them are in cults. Or they’re sentimental fucks who believe that Great Aunt Susie only haunts the family house because she forgot to write down her recipe for fried cheesecake. Well, that  _ might  _ be the case, but Great Aunt Susie’s spirit manifests as a half-decayed corpse with one eye and a walker. And she will kill you. If this Denise Alcott is so pressed about her grandmother’s ghost, it’s safe to then say that she’s probably part of a cult. Honestly, the logic is sound.

“Well, the house belongs to the City,” I explain. “So they don’t actually have to consult your family for anything.” Denise Alcott scoffs.

“Whatever. Just stay away from the house.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dallas standing in the doorway. I turn and mime choking an invisible annoyance. He snorts.

“Well, you have nice day, ma’am.” I end the call before she can keep on with her tirade.

“Who was that?”

“Some woman who was upset over the Morris-Jumel case.”

“Really?” He sits down at the desk and interlocks his fingers. It’s an odd blend of professionalism and juvenileness. Dallas’s posture screams of his executive upbringing and yet his ruffled hair and rumpled PJs clashes with that; he’s the boss that his blood calls him to be but the kid that he cannot deny he is. Maybe that’s the beef that that woman has for us. I’m nearly seventeen. Dallas is two months younger than I am, and Elodie and Isabelle are fifteen and thirteen respectively. None of us should be fit to run our own business, but here we are.

“Yeah,” I reply. “But it doesn’t really matter.” He looks at me critically.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” At least I hope it doesn’t. But, oddly enough, there’s a little tugging thought at the back of my mind telling me that it does. I dismiss it. Paranoia is dangerous in this business. And besides, I have a lot more pressing matters to deal with. 

It’s a Saturday, so Gator and Isabelle have the day off, but Dallas and I head off at around noon to go do some installs in Hell’s Kitchen. Installs are easy enough. Most of the time, they’re just consultations and the residents hire a real professional to properly install the defenses. But sometimes they forego paying a professional and just have us plant lavender and drill iron strips around entrances and dig little moats of running water. Saves a step. But it’s December, so Dallas and I just drill some iron around windows, advise worried residents on what to do if they think an Intruder is near. Installs are the most emotional and relational part of being an agent. The clients invite you into their home. They look to you for advice. They don’t see a couple of teenagers. They see a symbol of American might and will. The Problem came and shook North America to its core, and from the ashes of that burning shitstorm came the agents. And now, thirty years later, agents are still hailed as the saviors of society. It’s because of these agents that life can go on. How American, to exploit a sect of people just maintain the appearance of normalcy.

So Dallas and I finish our installs in record time. At around three, we leave the Bronx and take the train to a little coffee shop by the Archives called The Glorious Bean. It’s a small place. It’s an odd place. When you walk in, you’re assaulted by the very loud and very garish chotchkies that line the moss green walls. The sort of stuff that tourists would buy, but it’s not New York shit: It’s all Chicago shit. Chicago mugs, t-shirt, frisbees, bracelets, bumper stickers. There’s even an appropriately glorious painting of the Bean hanging above the counter. Absolutely nuts. Dakota brought us here about two years ago, probably ironically. But ever since then, it has been our go-to place to look over notes and articles for cases.

“HEYO,” Dallas hollers over the ringing bell of the opening door. 

Behind the counter, his favorite barista -- a small, bouncy man named Manuel -- waves his hand wildly above his head. “DALLAS, YOU GOTTA TRY THIS MILKSHAKE I MADE.”

“OKAY.” Manuel is probably the only person I’ve met since Dallas’s father who can keep up with him. He’s the only person who matches his unbridled energy and his love of theatre. When we approach the counter, he bops to the back and pulls out a glossy eight-by-ten of a chocolate milkshake. Dallas laughs. “Did you take a headshot of your milkshake?” Manuel nods.

“I call this the Pinocchio.” Manuel beams broadly, sliding the picture toward Dallas. He takes it and examines it thoughtfully.

“After John Tartaglia’s show-stealing character in  _ Shrek: The Musical _ ?”

“Pfft, who else?” Jesus, it’s like they’re speaking Mandarin Chinese or some shit. “Do you want me to whip this up for you?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You want one, Ruby?” So he does see me.

“Yeah, sure. Can I get a chocolate pastry too?” Manuel nods and soon returns with our drinks and my pastry. Before I can pull out my wallet, Dallas swipes his credit card through the machine. That’s the one upside to having a Rich Best Friend ™: He pays for everything. We pick our favorite corner booth and settle down, spreading the articles out around the table.

“So, this Eliza Jumel was a wily one,” says Dallas, twirling a pen through his fingers. “This article says she was the daughter of a prostitute, but she claimed to also be the illegitimate daughter of George Washington.”

“Was she?”

“Not likely. This more accurate article has her parents listed as one Phebe and John Bowen. She married Stephen Jumel after a brief and valiant try at a performance career in 1804--”

“Sounds like something you’d do.”

“Then they bought the Morris-Jumel Mansion, which was occupied by the Morris family, a couple of Tory sympathizers. During the Revolutionary War, the house was tossed back and forth between the American and British forces. The American forces ultimately abandoned it when it was taken over by Hessian forces.”

“Okay, well,” I say, pulling an article from the pile. “That’s interesting and all, but we’re more interested in the end of her life.” Dallas’s face falls, and he takes a long, morose sip of his milkshake.

“But I didn’t even get to talk about her marriage to Aaron Burr.”

“Later, Dallas. Anyway, the signs of dementia started showing up when she was, like… Well, it doesn’t say, but as she neared the end of her life, people started saying some shit.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, like that she murdered Stephen Jumel.”

“Ouch.”

“And that she was a child prostitute with her mother and had an illegitimate son.”

“Rude.”

“Well, yeah, but Eliza really didn’t try to stop it. In fact, she kind of encouraged it. The facts and fictions of her life are a little muddied, because she exaggerated everything so that this aura of mystery and scandal shrouded her.”

“Wow. Pretty deep.”

“I guess.” I lean back. Dallas takes a thoughtful sip of his milkshake and smacks his lips.

“So why would she come back and haunt her home? What unfinished business does she have?” He asks.

“Well, her remains or death place might not be adequately covered. That could be a reason why she’s still haunting it.”

“Or maybe she’s spiteful as hell.”

“Though it couldn’t be her remains, because Trinity Church is very well guarded, and if her bones were her Source, she’d be manifesting in the graveyard, and not in her home. Which means we can assume the Source is in the mansion.” I pause. “But, yes, it could just be that she’s spiteful as hell.”

“Or maybe bored.”

“Thing is, we can’t be entirely sure if it’s just her haunting the building. Alana’s report describes multiple phenomenon in different parts of the house. Eliza’s room, the foot of the steps, the hallways. Footsteps, whispering, rope creaking.”

“Wait. ‘Rope creaking?’”

“Yeah, why?” Dallas sits forward and rifles through the papers.

“I read … Hold on … Where is it? Oh, wait. Here we are.” He clears his throat dramatically and begins. “‘On the first floor, by the foot of the stairs, a member of the kitchen staff hung herself.’” He sits back, slaps the paper down on the table. I snort.

“That’s it?” He shrugs. “Where’d you find that?” He hands me the scrap of paper. It looks like it came from an early-nineteenth century newspaper, but other than that, it looks like it was ripped out of the page. “Are you sure that it comes from a reputable source?”

“Who cares?” 

Affronted, I lay a hand on my chest, but a smile grows on my face. “As a guardian of the ancient art of research, I do.”

“This tells us that there could be more than one Type-B Intruder in the house. Even if this article is one-percent true, we’ll be all that more prepared.” Underneath the adult contemporary jams of the coffee shop, a siren wails. And not just in the regular New York way. There’s not just one siren, but another and another and another couple more. Everything in the shop stalls. Dallas’s gaze snaps to the doorway. A blur of flashing red and blue lights whiz by, illuminating the darkness. Normally, we’d shiver and send a positive and impersonal thought to whatever situation needs that many vehicles, but one of Manuel’s coworkers turns on the TV in the corner.

And that’s when I see it.

On the screen, emergency vehicles crowd around the violet awnings of McKinley, the roaring scarlet of Zhang, the emerald of Vasquez. The police have the street cordoned off, and NYDPI agents race around, zipping charcoal figures, ushering staggering people out of the buildings. See, it looks like something is gravely wrong. Other than the tripping hordes of people, there’s nothing wrong. No fire. No glass pouring out of broken windows. No blood, no injury. So, why all the noise?

“Man, turn that shit up!” Manuel pounds the volume button, and suddenly it’s the loudest thing in the world. Dallas turns. A blonde reporter appears onscreen.

“There has been an attack on three of the major psychic investigations agencies on Fifth Avenue today: McKinley, Zhang, and Vasquez. The reports we’ve received are unspecific, but witnesses inside the buildings are saying that the attacks are psychic in nature.”

“What the hell does that mean?” shouts someone behind the counter.

“Shut it,” Dallas growls, his jaw tight and his face ashen.

“It appears that someone managed to sneak active Sources into not only the three agencies, but several of the other buildings on Fifth Avenue: Hempel Lavender Inc., Berkeley & Co., and Fairfax Irons US,” the woman continues. Dallas bolts to his feet, but stands still, shaking, bracing himself like he’s about to be hit. “The New York Department of Psychic Investigations will be sending its own teams and teams from other agencies into the buildings to eradicate any Intruders before they can send in relief teams.” 

Our line of work is undeniably a violent one, and there are definitely people who would take advantage of the guns at their hips and the authority of being an agent, and use it to hurt people. I’ve seen teams get into all-out brawls. I’ve seen someone get shot. Hell, I’ve seen someone blinded by the violence of an Intruder. But never, ever,  _ ever  _ have I heard of something like this. Especially of this scale. My hands shake. Every thought melts into white noise. Beside me, Dallas braces himself on a nearby stool. I stand and move to his side, wrapping a hand around his freckled arm. He turns his big hazel eyes to me, and the tears welling there say everything:  _ Dakota. _


	6. Fifth Avenue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ruby comes back to her roots and Elodie stands up for humanity.

“You want me to take you where?” The cabbie’s hardened, crow-footed eyes meet mine in the rearview window, one grizzly eyebrow raised. Dallas shuts the door behind him, but the cab stays put. 

“Fifth Avenue,” I say, keeping one eye on Dallas. He’s quiet. Usually, he takes the lead on small talk, but his jaw is clenched, his lower lip quivering almost imperceptibly. His fingers shook when he held the cab door open for me, but now he has them intertwined, forcing them still. “Please.” 

The cabbie folds his arms over his chest and scowls. “You want me to take you right into the middle of that bullshit?”

“Um. Yes.” 

Before the cabbie can protest, Dallas speaks up. “I will pay you one-hundred dollars on top of the fare to take me to Fifth Avenue.” His voice is low, dangerously quiet and lacking all his normal effusive charm. The cabbie shrugs, but doesn’t argue. The cab sputters into motion and heads north, right into the heart of the city and the heart of the attack.

Beside me, Dallas leans his head back against the seat, his eyes shut tightly. His breathing is even, monitored, like he’s keeping himself from losing it. I reach out and take his hand. He relaxes, but only a little bit. Somewhere, on Fifth Avenue, Dakota Crawford is either injured or totally fine. Or he’s something unthinkable that sends a bolt of terror through me. And for all the times Dallas has kept me grounded, I owe it to him to do the same. “He’s going to be okay,” I whisper. Dallas opens his eyes. This is one of the moments where Dallas has ever scared me. Even a little bit. Something unrestrained lurks in the hazel of his eyes. It’s worry, but it’s something wilder. Like he’d stop at nothing to make sure Kota is safe and unharmed and right by his side.

“You don’t know that.”

“No, you’re right,” I reply. “I don’t. But we’re not there yet. So breathe easy, and we’ll worry about Kota when we get there.” He nods. He closes his eyes. He leans his head on my shoulder and lets out a shuddering breath. We stay like that for the rest of the drive.

The cabbie lets us out three blocks from Fifth Avenue, which is an absolute fucking hassle. Civilians line the streets, clamoring to see the ruins, blocking the path of emergency officers. Dallas plows his way through the crowd while I trail behind him. People move right out of the way, and it has more to do with the guns at our hips more than the raging look in Dallas’s eyes. We’re right at the barricade of Fifth Avenue when someone calls out my name. I grab the back of Dallas’s jacket. He stops. We turn, and there are the Nguyen sisters, waving their hands at us.

They look as inelegant as I’ve ever seen them; Elodie’s ponytail is slipping from its band, her shirt is half tucked into her jeans. I’m pretty sure Isabelle’s sweater is on backwards, but she smiles at me anyway.

“You guys okay?” Elodie asks, approaching us quickly. 

“Fine,” I reply.

“We saw the news and we were  _ so  _ worried,” begins Isabelle. “And I said to Elodie, ‘we have to go there and see if we can help!’”

“So here we are,” says Elodie. She turns to Dallas. “Any word on your brother?” He shakes his head. “I’m sure he’s-”

“Let’s just move on,” Dallas growls, turning away and charging ahead to the barricade. Elodie and Isabelle exchange a look, and Elodie turns to me with a raised eyebrow:  _ Is he okay?  _ I shake my head before following in Dallas’s wake.

When we catch up, he’s at the barricade, gesturing irately at a young, tall NYDPI agent. She’s probably in her early twenties, around Kota’s age, with bright orange hair pulled back in a severe coil. She watches Dallas levelly, and as we approach, we can hear him more clearly.

“I’m not kidding!” A patch of scarlet creeps up his neck. “If you don’t let me past and through to my brother, I will sue.” The agent looks like she’s fighting back a laugh. She looks at us with green eyes too old for her round face as we near. 

“These your lawyers?” she asks mirthfully. Nobody laughs. She coughs awkwardly. “So, he’s Dallas Crawford.”

“Sadly, yes,” I say. “And he’s Angeline Crawford’s son and Dakota Crawford’s brother and if you don’t believe him when he says he will sue you, then you’re a lot slower than you look, Agent…?” A pause, and she looks the three of us up and down and then looks back to Dallas. 

“Doherty. Alicia Doherty. Psychic Invasion Crisis department.”

“Right,” Elodie says. “Agent Doherty, you-”

“Agent Doherty,” Isabelle interrupts. “You don’t know what it would mean to him if you let him through to see his brother. He’s our leader, but he’s pretty emotional and sappy and we’ve found out that it’s best to give him an outlet for his emotions.” Despite everything, I stifle a laugh. Dallas balks. She’s managed to sum up his entire sentence in one run-on sentence at probably the most inconvenient time. “And if you don’t let him through to find his brother, he’s probably gonna explode and then you’ll have to clean that up too.” There’s an awkward pause. Around us, officers and teams of agents from McKinley and Zhang and Vasquez and DeMille race to the aid, reload their guns, put on bulletproof vests under their coats. But Agent Doherty is still, watching us closely. She leans over the barricade and grabs at a tall Black man in a captain’s uniform. Their exchange is inaudible, but we see her gesture over her shoulder to us and the man turn his gaze to us. He gives her one swift nod before striding into the fray.

“Okay,” she says to Dallas and I. “You can go in and see your brother. He’s sitting near an ambulance out in front of the Trump Tower.” I give Dallas’s forearm a brief squeeze and we step closer to the barricade. Until Agent Doherty nearly clotheslines me.

“Uh-uh. Not you. Just the kid.” Dallas opens his mouth to protest, but I wave him on. I maybe have known Dakota since childhood, but in a time like this, it’s Dallas he’ll want to see. Not me.

“Go,” I say. He steps under the barricade and casts one last glance over his shoulder before the crowd of people swallows him. Agent Doherty clears her throat and turns away from us, but Elodie reaches out and grabs the sleeve of her coat.

“You guys are outnumbered.” 

Agent Doherty shifts uncomfortably. “No, we’re not,” she mutters.

“With buildings of this size and almost every agent in this area unarmed and sent packing from the premises to make room for you NYDPI? Yeah, you’re outnumbered.” Elodie folds her arms over her chest. I lean over to her. “What the hell are you doing?” I hiss, but she shushes me.

“Send us in.” Agent Doherty considers us for a moment.

“This one is the only one with a gun.” She points to me. Elodie unbuttons her coat to reveal her pistol tucked into a fold. Agent Doherty snorts. “It’s illegal to conceal your weapon like that.” Elodie shrugs.

“Arrest me then.” Doherty is, clearly, tempted, but she shakes her head and ducks under the barricade.

“Don’t move,” she warns and walks away. Elodie turns to Isabelle and puts a hand on her shoulder.

“You have to go home, Isabelle.” She pulls a bill out of her wallet and shoves it into her sister’s hand. “Take a cab and tell Mom and Dad where I am. Can you do that by yourself?” Isabelle nods furiously.

“But I want to be with  _ you _ ,” she protests.

“Well, Izzy, you’re unarmed, so you wouldn’t be able to protect yourself. You also weren’t trained as a field agent, and you don’t have the qualifications like I do. It’s even more dangerous too because we don’t know what we’re dealing with.” Isabelle pouts and points to me.

“But Ruby gets to go.”

“Well, that’s because I don’t like Ruby as much.” Isabelle lets out a pretty snort, and I know it’s a joke, but it stings a little bit. Before Izzy can argue further, Agent Doherty appears beside us, holding bulletproof vests and two well-stocked tool belts. She hands them to us. While we clip them on, she points beyond the barricade.

“You’re going to be assisting a team that’s going into McKinley. Your job is to eradicate and eliminate any Intruder you see and to set up protective barriers around any injured people you may find. Do  _ not  _ move them until you are certain you’ve removed every spirit from the premises. Agents, is that understood?”

“Understood,” Elodie and I respond in unison. It’s a reflex. When a supervisor or a team leader asks “agents, is that understood,” you are expected to respond in turn. Some people are dumb and say they understand when they don’t, which gets them in a lot of trouble. I’ve lived and seen it. As soon as the word falls from my lips, my heart pounds and my hands shake. So I inhale, count to six, exhale, count to six. Repeat until I’ve regained control over my body. Agent Doherty ushers us under the barricade and away from Isabelle. Elodie waves at her sister and calls out her goodbye. Isabelle holds up her hand, her thumb, index, and pinky fingers extended. I recognize that.  _ I love you _ . Elodie makes the same gesture until her sister has disappeared from eyeshot. She turns back, and we make eye contact. Awkwardly, I look away. When I do, I wish I hadn’t, because Agent Doherty has led us right outside the McKinley building and next to a woman in her late-thirties with thick dark brown hair tied back in a ponytail, the violet of her McKinley jacket complimented by her brown skin, not unlike mine. I know her pinched expression and disdainful gaze very well. I grew up with it and so did Dallas. When she sees me, she smiles, like the rat who got the last piece of gouda cheese.

“Miss Rosario,” says Mrs. Miranda, her voice gruff and rumbly. She’s my former supervisor, mentor, and idol. “So lovely to see you again.”

“Great to see you too, Mrs. Miranda.” I ignore the urge to vomit and smile. She’s also the woman who got me fired. 

“You taking care of yourself? What’s that I heard about you and Crawford opening up your own business?” She smiles, and it’s like being nine years old again and fighting tooth and nail for her approval. I’m paralyzed. Jesus, she’s more intimidating than anything I’ve ever seen in the dark. Elodie -- dear, blessed, gift-from-above Elodie -- comes to my rescue.

“Yep. Crawford Investigations. I’m Elodie Nguyen, junior field agent.” Her tone is friendly enough, but the edge to her smile is sharp enough to cut a diamond like salami. “Now, let’s cut the small-talk and get down to it. What’s the plan?” Mrs. Miranda purses her lips and gestures for us to follow. In front of the polished glass doors of the lobby are about six teenagers. As we approach, they turn. My heart leaps in my chest as two girls run to me, laughing and calling my name.

“RUBY.”

“OH, MY GOD.”

They jump on me, wrap me up in bone-crushing hugs, and despite my constricted lungs, I wheeze out a laugh. They pull away, and I look up into the beaming faces of Emma Cho and Kenzie Phelps.

Emma Cho -- raven-haired like the Nguyen sisters, but tall, lean, and lithe like a gymnast. Other than Dallas, she’s probably the fiercest field agent I’ve ever seen in my young life. Impeccable accuracy, Keen-Eared as hell, coolest head on anybody I’ve ever seen. And then there’s Kenzie Phelps, her blonde partner in crime. Big green eyes that can See Intruders coming from a mile away and an even bigger smile with braces that cheekily match her uniform. They were a year behind Dallas, Seth, and I at McKinley and, for some fucking reason, they really looked up to me. Trust me, it didn’t do any favors for my ego or my insecurities. It’s hard to act when you know that people have their eyes on you. Still, doesn’t mean I’m not excited to see them.

“Ruby, are you on this team?” Emma asks, bouncing on her feet, holding me captive still. Before I can react, Mrs. Miranda hollers for us to rejoin the group. Kenzie rolls her eyes but ushers us over.

“So, this is what’s gonna go down. The eight of you are going to split up into two groups. One team will search the even floors, the other will search the odd floors. Reynolds, Lopez, Sanders, Anderson, you’re with me on the odd floors. Cho, Phelps, Rosario, Rosario’s friend, you’ll go alone and take the even floors. If you find injured people, create an iron barrier around them. Leave them alone. Once we give the all-clear, the relief teams will come in and carry people out. Agents, is that understood?

“Understood,” we chorus, like a military children’s choir. Mrs. Miranda turns her beady eyes on me.

“Agent Rosario,” she all but growls, her voice low. “Is that understood?” The seven agents turn their eyes on me, waiting, wondering why she chose to single me out. I swallow but nod.

“Understood.”

“Then let’s go.”

* * *

 

McKinley students are housed in a complex an hour north and outside the city, right along a bend in the Hudson River. That’s where they do all their training and where they’re boarded, but once they graduate, and if they choose to stick around, they move on to McKinley agencies around the state. Most of them wind up in New York, like I did, and work at the McKinley Tower. Because I only worked there for about two weeks after graduation, I didn’t spend too much time there, but the scent of burnt-out lavender candles and freshly-printed incident reports is so familiar. 

During the day, the sun lets in a healthy amount of sunlight, but when the sun goes down, the heavy black curtains are drawn. It’s that way now, as we enter the building. The tastefully lilac wall behind the reception desk is lined with photographs of famous cases: the Wraith of Union Square; the Richard Rodger’s Spectre. They surround the largest and most ornate frame: A white woman with a short, cheeky brown bob and big dark eyes: Jordan McKinley, America’s iconic entrepreneur and the pioneer of this age. It’s under her vision that this tower was created, a testament to the agents she trained and the Gifts she possessed. It’s a symbol for American will And yet, without the hustle and bustle of agents coming to and fro and the cheery receptionist, it’s eerie.

Elodie is the first of our team to move, moving swiftly and silently up the stairs, her gun tucked into the palm of her hand. Kenzie and Emma follow after her and leave me in their dust. I race after them, the chains at my tool belt rattling like Marley’s ghost. The three of them are huddled at the top of the stairs, and I run into Kenzie, but don’t apologize. Her eyes are open wide, looking out for any Intruders. Elodie and Emma stand with their eyes closed, Listening. Moments later, Gator waves us on. We fan out on the second floor, looking under discarded furniture for injured people. Nobody’s there. So we move on to the fourth floor. On our way up, we pass Mrs. Miranda. We make tense eye contact, but move on.

The next few floors are all the same: Empty. No Intruder, no victims. We pass through them quickly, rising up the glass staircase that winds through the center of the building. By the eighth floor, I’m wheezing. Jesus, I get it now. This is why Dallas does cardio. By the time we’re on the thirty-sixhth floor -- just two from the top -- I’m ready to drop fucking dead. But before I die on the spot, there’s already someone there.

Kenzie almost steps on the body, but Emma yanks her away before she can break the swollen, violet ankle of the woman in a cream pantsuit. Elodie recoils. I cannot help but stare. For someone who works in a business that revolves around the concept of death, I’ve never actually  _ seen  _ a dead body. At least, not a fresh one. It’s jarring. Like they could, at any point, wake up and go about their normal business. But the body at the top of these stairs does not resume filing paperwork. It --  _ she  _ \-- lies still, frozen in death.

“Someone…” Emma chokes. “Someone move it.” Elodie steps forward, drags the body away by its ankles, out of the way of the staircase. Then, she stands before us, level-headed and somehow sane, reloading her gun with remarkable poise.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do.” Her voice is low and as serious as the grave. “We’re gonna-”

“Wait,” Emma interrupts. “Do you feel that?” It takes me a second to realize what she’s talking about -- the change in air pressure, the sudden drop in temperature, or the spark of rage that roars to life inside my chest. Well, she’s talking about all three of those things. The first two things are common features of psychic phenomenon, but the last one - it’s indicative of something far more sinister than just a Shade in the park. 

See, the classes of Intruders are broken up into three parts: Class C, the virtually harmless Shades and Peeping Toms and Weeping Widows; Class B, the more malignant Poltergeists and Wraiths and Demon spirits; and then Class A, which are basically unheard of and can allegedly carry full conversations. But what we’re dealing with here, in the McKinley Tower, is a Demon spirit: A subclass of Intruder known for the rage it induces in those around it, which makes them dangerous in their own right. It’s bad enough giving hormonal and pubescent humans a loaded gun, but to drop them in the field with one of those motherfuckers? It’s why we take classes on how to handle our emotions appropriately. And that’s why the four of us take slow, methodical breaths. They tells us in school to go to a peaceful place, to keep the rage at bay. For me, it’s always been sitting on the banks of the Hudson River with Seth and Dallas in the last month of the school year, with the sun warming our skin. I go there. I come back. I’m the first one to open my eyes. The other three stand silent, probably Listening. Kenzie opens her eyes and stares out at the cubicles.

“Shit,” she hisses. Elodie and Emma’s eyes fly open.

“What?” Elodie growls. Kenzie points with one hand and reaching for her gun with the other

“Over there.” At first, I don’t see it. But then, the shadows on the wall climb higher. Something, somewhere, getting closer, skitters on the marble floors. Then, it creeps around the corner, and Emma stifles a scream.

More or less, an Arachne demon is a spider -- a really fucked up spider - roughly the size of a moped. Semi-corporeal, with eight human legs, rotting shiny black flesh. Its cluster of eyes flash crimson when it sees us. Elodie cocks her gun. It pauses. It screams. It charges forward towards us. 

“Dagger formation!” Elodie cries. “Let’s go!”

Elodie charges, Emma follows, and Kenzie and I trail behind. Elodie fires her gun. Two iron bullets pierce the demon, and it screeches, the eyes flashing even brighter and angrier. Emma fires off two more shots, hitting its eyes. Kenzie and I surround it on both sides, bayonets extended. With a flick of the wrist, Emma cuts a complicated pattern into the demon. It screeches but flickers in the darkness, retreating back through the wall behind a receptionist's desk. Elodie points.

“There. The Source is through there.” She turns the corner where the demon first appeared and disappears. Kenzie follows her, unfurling a square sheet of silver chain-links as she goes. Emma starts, making to follow them, but I hold her back.

“They should be fine. We need to move these victims to safety.” So Emma and I start roving around the building, feet silent, keeping an ear out for Elodie and Kenzie if they need us. I wind around the cubicles, searching for life -- or a lack thereof. As I search, I hear the thundering of boots on the staircase and hear Mrs. Miranda’s voice carrying indistinctly over this floor. It disappears, and soon I can hear them running around above me. In front of me there’s an intern crouched under her desk, shaking in her lilac blazer, her hands covering her ears. I grab her hand and she leads me to a young boy in a McKinley jacket. They guide me through the cubicles, whispering frantically and pointing to where their colleagues might be. Where they lead me, I go. Over half of the people I find are alive, but it seems like for all the people we save, there are still too many who we find still warm but unmoving, like that woman at the top of the stairs.

Emma and I meet by the stairs. It appears that she’s had better luck than I have, as the trembling group behind her is larger in size. I unhook a circle of chains from my utility belt and shepherd them into a huddle beside a water cooler. They sit encircled, some clutching the others, some sitting shell-shocked. Twelve in all. We leave them with a promise that we would come back. As we return to the staircase, Elodie and Kenzie step out from the darkness. I didn’t notice it while I was looking for survivors, but the pressure on the floor has dropped and the temperature raised and the background noise of the demon and battle have faded. As they approach, I notice a long and narrow cylinder of silver-glass in Elodie’s hands. She holds it gingerly, like someone told her they’d give her ten-million dollars to hold a ticking bomb as long as she could: like at any minute, if it starts fucking around, she’ll throw it as far as she can.

“Ruby, check this out,” she says, passing the glass case to me. “This seems right up your alley.” Inspecting it further, I can see that it’s divided in half with iron hinges on either side. Where the two halves meet, there is a little mechanism, with a clock like a microwave reading 0:00. Sort of like a bomb. A countdown to setting the spirit that inhabits the Source free. The Source -- I assume -- is an old, old,  _ old _ yellow dagger. It was probably once white, but time made the purity of its color drain away. Looks like a Roman dagger. Or a Grecian dagger. AN old Source. Usually, they get this kind of classical shit over in Great Britain, where the Romans once occupied. These sort of Sources are not naturally found in the US. That fact and the rigging of the case tells me two things: One, this Source was probably purchased from a relic man, which makes it  _ very  _ illegal; and two, the attacks on Fifth Avenue are premeditated and more sophisticated than anyone may have thought. 

I hand it back to Elodie, and she slips it in the place inside her coat where her gun usually is holstered. “This… It’s interesting. But we have to keep going.” She nods.

“Right. Okay. One more floor, you guys.”

“It’s where Sam McKinley’s office is,” I explain. “It’s likely that her evacuation was the biggest priority, so don’t expect a whole lot of people.”

“At least,” Elodie continues. “Not a whole lot of living people. Whoever put this attack together has a vendetta against the agencies, and seeing as the top floors belong to the company bigwigs -- adults who lack any Gifts -- it’s likely that the attacker has saved the worst Intruders for last. So. Are we ready? Great. Let’s go.”

We slip up the stairs, quietly, eyes and ears open wide. Below us, Mrs. Miranda hollers out an order, and there’s the sound of iron pellets being fired from a gun. Beside me, Emma and Elodie shut their eyes tightly, trying their best to discern the voice of what’s below to the voice of what might lie ahead. 

The top of the stairs lets out into a small waiting area, long since abandoned, cloaked in the shadows of the night. Miss McKinley’s offices are to the right, and the rest of the chief officers offices are to the right. We’re about to split up into teams when the soft clicking of boots sounds on the staircase behind us. Emma almost jumps out of her skin and Kenzie almost unloads a round into Mrs. Miranda and her team behind us. They… Well, I’ve seen better looking agents. They’re all mussed up from the fight, and in the hands of some skinny kid is a device just like the one tucked away in Elodie’s pocket.

“Seen anything fun?” asks Mrs. Miranda.

“An Arachne demon,” Elodie replies. “Nothing too exciting. I was just saying how the worst of the Intruders might be ahead of us.” A sparkle of admiration lights up Mrs. Miranda’s beady eyes.

“Yes, of course.” She clears her throat and regards us carefully. “We should-” Then, like a mini-missile, a stapler shoots past her head. Someone screams. Glass shatters behind us. Nobody says a word because nobody needs to. There’s only one type of spooky motherfucker that can throw a stapler with that force: A Poltergeist.

“Listen here,” says Mrs. Miranda, gesturing for us to crouch down with her. “We go in together. You don’t leave the group without express permission from me. We look for anyone left behind. We move them to safety, find the Source, neutralize it, and move out. Agents, is that understood?”

“It’s getting stronger,” Emma interrupts. “Can’t you hear it?”

“Agents,” Mrs. Miranda repeats, peeved. “Is that understood?”

“Understood.” I have questionable Hearing, at best, but I know what Emma’s getting at. The pressure in the room is mounting, the temperature drops. Underneath all of that, I can hear something buzzing. Something is angry, something wants us to fuck off. But we can’t. And we won’t. We wait for Mrs. Miranda to give the signal. After a heavy moment’s pause, she raises a hand and waves us forward. We move out, but for a second, I hesitate on the top step and look back at Mrs. Miranda. Unsmiling, unmoving, watching teenagers charge toward possible death. She raises an eyebrow and waves me on. A surge of irritation rushes through me. This shit -- it’s exactly why I agreed to open Crawford Investigations in the first place. Then, armed with my gun and the knowledge that I’ll never have to put up with a goddamn supervisor again, if I make it out alive, I follow the rest of my team into the fray.

I find Elodie lurking around the conference room, a long wide room with a wall of windows looking out over the city. In the darkness, she’s just another shadow. I almost miss her. I whistle a tone softly, and I see her face turn and look at me. She waves. While she checks the window side of the room, I mirror her path on the other side of the long cedar table. The room is slightly warmer and the air less heavy. No Source in here. I snap my fingers once. Elodie looks over but keeps her course. But before I can tell her there’s no Source here, I trip over something solid and warm and sort of soft.

Like the graceful fuck I am, I land right on my face, my gun skittering out of my hand. Blessedly, it doesn’t go off. Elodie races to my side. I roll onto my back and sit up, looking down at what I tripped on.

It’s a person. And as my eyes adjust and I see the sheath of dark brown hair and pale skin and long features, I see that it is, more specifically, Samantha McKinley -- daughter of Jordan McKinley and current CEO of McKinley Enterprises.

“Jesus,” whispers Elodie, putting her gun away and crouching beside me. “Is she dead?” I press two shaking fingers to her pulse point on her neck. Under my fingers, the pulse beats faintly. But it’s there.

“No, she’s alive.”

“Is she ghost-touched?” I look at her hands and her face. All normal, but there’s a bump forming at the crown of her head. 

“No, she’s not. But it looks like the Poltergeist whacked her with something.”

Elodie rises. “We have to move her.”

“We’re not supposed to.”

“So we’re supposed to leave the leader of the biggest psychic investigation agency and academy unconscious in the midst of a dangerous Intruder?”

“Um. Yes.” She regards me for a while, her lips pursed. For a second, I think she’s gonna go off on me and drag my ass, but she just sighs and steps forward.

“I’ll take her left side if you take her right side. Ah, don’t even try and argue with me, Ruby. We’re doing this. Now, lift with your legs.” 

Samantha McKinley is slight, which is a blessing because any stamina I had at the beginning of my ascent forty stories up the McKinley tower is completely gone now. Carrying Miss McKinley between us -- one of her arms over our shoulders -- we sneak out of the conference room and past the other chief offices. On the other side of the waiting room, I hear Emma and Kenzie and the four other kids muttering among themselves, searching for the Source. They need to be quieter or the Poltergeist is gonna show itself again and do far worse than give a stapler flight lessons. Once we’re at the top of the stairs, we take the first step down, only to have Mrs. Miranda start forward.

“Where do you think you’re going?” She whisper-shouts. “I specifically said we move any survivors after we clear the area.” Glass shatters behind Elodie and I. A creeping sense of fear crawls up my back. The Poltergeist is growing stronger.

“We need to get out of here,” I say. Mrs. Miranda shakes her head.

“Nope. You’re on my team, you follow my orders.”

“So, what?” Elodie challenges. “You want us to take her back to where we found her and leave her there?” She grabs Miss McKinley’s hand from behind and waves it frantically and raises her voice about two octaves. “‘Don’t do that to me!’” She cries in mock-horror. “‘Don’t leave me unconscious on the floor with a dangerous Class B Intruder floating around and throwing staplers! Have mercy!’” I choke down a laugh. Mrs. Miranda glowers. We sober up, but when Mrs. Miranda doesn’t budge, I sigh.

“Okay, look.” I use my free hand to lift Miss McKinley’s chin from her chest. “You get it?” Mrs. Miranda, and it satisfies me to see this, looks mortified. “Let us go.” Reluctantly, swallowing her goddamn pride, she lets us pass. I don’t look back, but instead stare ahead at the thirty-nine flights of stairs I have to carry Samantha McKinley’s dead weight down. Great fucking Scott. Elodie whispers to me, “Come on.” Together, we stumble down the stairs. But then two flights down, Elodie stops. 

“Okay, I’ll let you take it from here.” Before I can respond, she unwraps her arm from Miss McKinley’s waist. I almost fall the fuck over but steady myself on the banister.

“What? Where are you going?”

“Going to get those people we found earlier.”

“What? No, don’t.”

“Right, just leave them alone with a dangerous Intruder. Sure.”

“Elodie, that’s not what I’m saying. It’s just -- ah, Jesus, she’s heavy -- you shouldn’t go it alone.”

“Ruby. Go.”

“No, I’m not leaving you alone.” A flicker of irritation marrs her pretty face for a second.

“Ruby. I’m a trained field agent. We checked this floor and all the previous floors for Intruders. I’m fine. We need to get them out of there.”

“El-”

“Goodbye, Ruby.” She turns away from me.

“Wait!” She turns back. “I-I can’t carry her the rest of the way by myself.”

“Consider it your yearly workout.” And then she leaves me. I heave a sigh, look at Miss McKinley’s still face, and step forward. “Right, boss. Let’s go.”

Then, after what feels like a fucking eternity later, my feet touch the marble floors of the lobby. My arms tremble and ache and burn. Samantha is still motionless at my side. Through the glass of the front doors, I can see a herd of NYDPI agents milling around and a couple of paramedics, armed with adrenaline shots. And then I see blond hair gleaming in the amber light of the streetlamps and broad shoulders under a black overcoat. A sob of relief escapes my lips. And then my heart grows three times its size when I see a slim figure in a black suit and the same blond hair. Dakota. He’s okay. The sight of the Crawford brothers is enough to carry me through the last couple of steps to the door. With one arm around Samantha McKinley and the other trying to push open the heavy glass doors, I struggle to open the heavy glass doors. But an NYDPI agent sees me and opens it for me. Two more agents come and take Miss McKinley from me. I almost fall over when they take her weight off of my side, but Dallas is there to steady me. He grins, but then I see Dakota and his freckles and his long face and his pointy eyebrows and I stagger past Dallas and wrap Dakota up in as strong of a hug as I can muster. He laughs and says something into my hair, but I can’t hear him. He pats my shoulder, pulls away, grips my shoulders, and smiles softly at me.

“I think someone wants to see you,” he says, ruffling my hair, nodding at someone over my shoulder. Of course it’s Dallas. He wraps me up in a big bear hug, lifting me a little off the ground, burying his face in my shoulder, and exhales. God knows how long we stay like that before he sets me down.

“You’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Okay, well, you should probably tell that to the paramedics because they seem really antsy to take a look at you.” He points over my shoulder. I turn around to see two paramedics in blue hurry towards me. I groan.

“No! No,” I say, waving them away with my hand. They keep coming towards me, but behind them and walking out the front doors are the people Elodie went back to rescue. I point to them. “They need you way more than I need you.” Their attention immediately shifts toward the staggering mob of survivors. I look for Elodie among them. But I can’t find her.

“Do you see Elodie?” I ask Dallas. He stands on his tiptoes, surveys the group, and shakes his head. “She went in there with me. We were assigned to Mrs. Miranda’s team.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it was… Well, there’s Mrs. Miranda, leaving the building right now.”

“She looked over here.”

“She’s not gonna say hi.”

“Oh, who cares?”

“Okay, but where is Elodie? I don’t-” 

Dallas points a finger over the crowd. “I think that’s her.” I stand on my tiptoes and follow his finger. He’s right. There’s Elodie, standing absently in front of the glass doors. She’s looking at something way far away. It’s not until I’ve wedged myself through the crowd and stand before her that I see she’s shaking like an elegant yet disheveled leaf in a storm. I say her name as I approach. She looks up. There’s a scrape on her cheek and forehead. Her pretty blue coat is burning in some spots. It’s streaked with ectoplasm stains and ripped in some places. Her utility belt hangs almost totally unfastened at her side. And then that’s when I see it: The skin of her left hand is mottled blue: Ghost-touch. Her eyes meet mine, and I take a step forward. Before I can reach Elodie, her eyes flutter shut. She’s unconscious before her body hits the pavement. 


	7. Bright Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elodie recovers and Ruby allows some light to shine through.

MSNBC is the first to call December 8th, 2013 the Blackest Hour. The name catches, and soon every media outlet everywhere is reporting on it -- a domestic terrorist attack on the agencies on Fifth Avenue. After reviewing the security feeds, they find the identity of the man responsible for the attack -- Dylan Martin, a twenty-eight year old man from Harlem -- but not the man himself. A manhunt ensues. The city mourns the thirty-two agent and civilian lives lost. Fifth Avenue becomes a monument to those dead: Pictures and Christmas wreaths and candles line the streets out front of the businesses. Inside the buildings, security is doubled, to prevent any threats from coming in and any threats from coming back. The nights are rough. A strict curfew is imposed, but still we lose sleep. Regardless. Life limps on for everyone -- including Crawford Investigations. 

We count ourselves lucky that Elodie was not listed among the dead. Still, she scared the shit out of us. Once she and the civilians were out of the McKinley Tower, she’d barely kept it together before crumpling over on the sidewalk. The glass cylinder inside her coat had cracked while Elodie had helped a rattled intern to her feet inside the building. It had shattered when it slipped out of her coat and onto the carpet. The demon manifested, right next to the copy machine. Elodie had sent the survivors packing and fought the Intruder - of course - on her own

She’d woken up inside the ambulance and -- in a totally Elodie like fashion -- had argued that she was fine and that she could just walk the rest of the way home. They’d taken her to Lenox Hill anyway. Despite what the receptionist said about “family only” during visiting hours, two days later, Dallas and I, armed with a bouquet of crimson roses, a card, and a plush alligator toy -- an “homage” to her hometown, as Dallas had called it -- sneak up to her floor anyway.

“Knock, knock,” Dallas calls, striding in through the open door. He stands at the foot of her bed, sweeps the Santa hat off of his blond hair, and bows low to her, grinning like a madman.

Anyone else, after fighting a Class-B Intruder on their own and almost fucking dying would look repulsive. But not Elodie. Her unwashed hair, scraped-up face, and white hospital gown look actually sort of vogue. And the riotous corona of crimson, yellow, and white flowers totally adds to her “ethereal protector of the realm” aesthetic. On any other day, I would have been jealous. But now’s not the time to be an asshole. After what she did in the Tower, I feel nothing but glowing pride. As we approach, she struggles to sit up in her bed. Dallas shoves the bouquet and gator into my hands and helps her up. She smiles graciously at both of us. I wave the flowers in greeting.

“You opening a flower shop?” I ask. She laughs weakly.

“Flowers? A card? A little gator? And you’re breaking visiting hour rules to see me? You guys are the best,” she says. I set the toy in her lap, and she strokes its head fondly. “You just missed Isabelle. She asked about you, Ruby. Wanted to know if you were okay.”

“Did she ask after me?”

“No, Dallas, I don’t think she’s quite as attached to you.”

“Why not? I’m just as cute as Ruby.”

“Anyway, I told that you’re okay, Ruby. And I told her that she’ll still have to show up to work today.” Then, she looks at Dallas and gestures to her head. “I like your hat. Festive.”

“Thank you. Do you like your gator?”

“I do. Very much. Oh, you can set the roses next to that white bouquet, Ruby. No, not that white bouquet. The other one. Thank you.” I hand her the card, a square thing in a navy blue envelope. “It’s from the both of us,” I say as she tears the envelope open. It’s nothing special. Just your standard “get-well-soon, thanks-for-saving-twelve-people-from-certain-death, and humanity-is-in-your-debt” sort of thing. When she opens it, a crisp twenty-dollar bill falls onto her laps. Elodie snorts and picks it up, waving it gently in Dallas’ direction. 

“Touching,” she says with a smile. “But no, really. Thank you. This means a-”

A nurse rolls in mid-sentence with a tray full of breakfast. When he sees Dallas and me, he stops. 

“Visitors are family only.” He regards us suspiciously. “You family?”

“That depends on your definition of the word,” Dallas replies. “Do you mean ‘family by blood’ or ‘family by choice’ or ‘family, in the sense that humanity is all one big dysfunctional family’?” The nurse stares.

“We’re adopted?” I add. Nothing.

Dallas points to Elodie. “She’s adopted?” Still nothing. The nurse folds his arms over his chest. I rise from my seat, patting Dallas on the shoulder.

“Um. We’re just gonna go. It was nice to see you, Elodie. We’ll stop by again soon.” I glance at the nurse. “Er, actually, we won’t because it’s family only and rules are rules. Come on, Dallas.” Dallas follows me out the door, but when I look back, I see him wink at the nurse. Elodie, sitting ragged in her hospital bed, lets out a tinkling laugh as we walk out the door.

* * *

 

“What sort of car is that?” I ask as the cab rolls to a halt on our corner of W 186th Street. Dallas shells out the fare, and says as we step out of the cab, “Looks like a Crown Victoria?”

“No, not the model of car, but who it belongs to.” It sits in front of our apartment, black and sleek without the silver lining of a night-cab. There’s no siren on top.

“It’s NYDPI,” Dallas says matter-of-factly after a brief moment.

“How can you tell?”

“It says right there.” He points.

“Right where?” He sighs and points again.

“Right there.”

“Dallas.  _ Where _ .”

“That sticker! In the corner of the windshield.” Ah. There it is. A little black sticker with the letters NYDPI in bold letters. How on earth could I fail to notice a sticker no bigger than my pointer finger? “What do you think-”

“Mr. Crawford? Miss Rosario?” A voice calls from the steps of our building. There’s Agent Doherty standing on the top step, hands in the pockets of her black puffer jacket, her red hair scraped back in a severe twist and her silver NYDPI badge glinting in the dying winter sunlight. In her little gloved hands, she clutches a violet envelope. She smiles tightly. “Can I have a moment of your time?”

“Agent Doherty,” Dallas says with a smile, holding out his hand. “It’s wonderful to see you. How are you?” The warmth in his voice might melt the ice off of the sidewalks, but Agent Doherty remains unaffected. She shakes his hand with her right hand and holds out the violet envelope with her left. Dallas takes it. “I’m alive,” she answers. “Which is to say that I’m doing well, all things considered.” She nods to the envelope, which Dallas has proceeded to open. “Oh, sir, that’s for Miss Nguyen. Not for you.”

“Which one? We got the set. But don’t worry. I’m an honorary Nguyen sister.” He lifts the card from inside the envelope, which he discards in my hands. The card is a small, rectangular sheet of pearlescent cardstock with silver foil lining the edges and swooping black cursive lining the inside. It sort of looks like the McKinley diplomas. Dallas shuffles towards me and, together, we read it.

“What does that say? ‘Valium?’” Dallas asks about four words in. Reading cursive is a lost art form. I roll my eyes but begin to read out loud: “Miss Elodie Nguyen, your valiant efforts during the Blackest Hour saved not only the lives of twelve civilians, but my own as well. I owe you a life debt; however, those sorts of debts take an awfully long time to pay. To recognize your courage in the face of adversity and your strength beyond measure, you, your family, and your team at Crawford Investigations are welcome to attend a dinner in your honor. Sincerely yours, Samantha McKinley.” Below that is a scrawled date and time. Dallas lets out a low whistle.

“I’ll be damned,” he mutters, a twinkle in his eyes. “Samantha McKinley knows we exist.” Slowly and silently, Agent Doherty moves towards her car, like she’s making a quick escape from a pair of Wraiths. Dallas turns as she places her hand on the car door. She turns bright red and clears her throat. 

“Right, well,” she says. “Since that’s all I was sent here for, I should get going. There’s a manhunt going on.”

“For Dylan Martin?” Dallas asks.

“No, Patti Lupone,” she quips.

“Ah.”

“If there’s a manhunt going on,” I say. “Then why do they have you delivering mail?” A small, wry smile spreads across her face, but her eyes glint like the edge of a bayonet blade.

“At twenty, I’m the youngest NYDPI agent to date,” she begins. “So when they need someone to pick up the lunch orders or run errands around the city, they send me. I’m the newbie. It’s just how it is, and I’m fine with that.” She shrugs in a way that suggests that, truly, there is nothing fine about it. But she doesn’t say anything else, just nods at us, slips into her car, and drives away.

“I’m still in shock,” Dallas says, following me up the steps and into our apartment. “A special dinner thanks to Samantha McKinley?”

“Well, _ she _ wasn’t the one who saved Miss McKinley, now was she?” I grumble. Dallas pauses, setting the invitation on the little hallway table. 

“Ruby…” he says, an admonition forming on his brow. 

“Right. Right, I know. I’m sorry. That wasn’t cool.” It’s always been a flaw of mine, my lack of courage. I’m not one of those agents who can just waltz into the darkness and save fifty weeping widows, like Elodie did. I’m a researcher, but the kind of researcher whose shtick is just that: Researching. Books. Silence. Pens. Nothing more and nothing less. So when my one feat of bravery goes unnoticed, of fucking course I feel slighted. 

But, truly, I’m proud of her. We really did find a diamond and we’re lucky as fuck to have someone like Elodie Nguyen and her sister in our company. When I tell Dallas just that, he crosses the room to grab me firmly by the shoulders.

“Exactly.” He squeezes fondly, shucks off his coat, tosses it on the couch in the living room, and sinks low into the blue recliner. He reaches for the remote and the TV blinks into life, displaying a mugshot of a white man in his late twenties, shaved blond hair and cold blue eyes. Dylan Martin, the person responsible for the Blackest Hour. I sit on the couch beside Dallas, a wave of nausea roaring through me. When you live as I do, facing the terrors of the night on a regular basis, you become a little desensitized to it all: To evil and to death. But when I look at Dylan Martin, I see the worst of humanity -- living or dead. 

They’ve plastered his face everywhere -- posters all over the city and on every television screen and all over the subways and in the cabs. They want him found. They talk about him on the news. At first, they questioned his mental health, but after interviewing his mother, they found the truth: His brother’s name was Zachary, and Zachary was an agent at McKinley who was killed in action about six months ago. He was the breadwinner of the Martin family, as a lot of agents are, and when he was killed, he left behind his brother and his sick mother. Now, with the legislation that was passed that no longer requires the compensation check, the Martin family wasn’t given any money. In retaliation, Dylan Martin did what he did. 

Was it right? Not by any standards. Does he deserve the justice that’s coming to him? Absolutely. But the one thought I keep having is this: Greed and corruption only breeds more greed and corruption. Some will try to masquerade it as nobility or a rebel’s stance against the power-hungry, but it’s evil to its core. 

I’m so far deep in this thought that I almost miss, at first, hear Dallas saying my name. When I look up, he’s out of his chair and turning the TV off. “It’s almost ten. Isabelle will be here soon.” I rise and join him in the office.

* * *

 

When Isabelle does arrive, she shifts the whole mood of the apartment from that of a funeral parlor to a midday tea party. She bounces through the office door, a manila envelope in her gloved hand, snowflakes in her hair, and a winsome smile on her face. “Look at what I found at the Archives, Ruby.” She hands me the manila envelope. Inside it is a yellowed piece of paper that almost disintegrates when I touch it. “What is it?” I ask.

“It’s a letter from one of the cooks at the mansion to Mrs. Jumel during her period in France. While Mrs. Jumel was away, one of her maids hung herself on the first floor by the stairs. Patricia Wetherford. She was only nineteen.”

“Oh, God. That’s terrible. ‘Scandalous circumstance?’” I say, peering closer at the letter. “What is that referring to?”

“See,” she opens the manila envelope and pulls out another letter. “I was confused about that at first, but then I found this letter addressed to Patricia from some man named Joe Pickering, who was the father of her unborn child.”

“Ooh, that’s gotta suck,” chimes in Dallas, lifting his blond head from the company ledger. “If you think being nineteen and pregnant today is bad, just imagine being nineteen, unmarried, and pregnant back then. All those puritanical values.”

“Pickering begged her to write him back. He was concerned about her - as you can tell from the letter,” Isabelle continues, unfazed. “He begged her to marry him, to start a family, but she still killed herself. She was the daughter of a Lutheran minister, so it’s likely that her family of origin disowned her when they found out. It’s tragic.” I spare a glance behind me to Dallas, who sits with his head cradled in his hands. He stares down at the ledger, a look of raw vulnerability on his face. Something remarkable about Dallas -- nine years in this industry and he’s never allowed himself to be desensitized to human pain and agony, of the living or the dead. All of our professors called this a weakness, but this unshakable empathy is what makes him fearless. When I turn back to Isabelle, she’s staring at Dallas with concern.

“Good call, letting me know,” I say, handing her the letters and taking the attention off of Dallas. “We just found another potential spirit that we didn’t previously know about. Good work, Isabelle.”

“Yeah, good work, Izzy!” Dallas cheers, a smile brightening his face. She beams at my praise, beatific, but flushes a little at Dallas’ praise. I clear my throat.

“Isabelle, I need some help organizing our casebook. Can you give me a hand?” She nods and follows me to the other side of the office to our solitary filing cabinet. The top drawer opens with an ungodly screech, and from the dusty depths, I pull out a square leather-bound journal. As I show her the casebook and its blank pages, she watches closely, listening aptly. Her hands fidget with the silver charm on her bracelet.

Once I put her to work - organizing our cases, scheduling, copying case notes from a legal pad to the casebook - I can tell that there’s nothing she’d rather be doing than this: Working, writing, reading. Isabelle - despite everything she’s gone through and the swirling horrors of the world around her - remains hopeful and optimistic. Same goes for Dallas, who would honestly rather be doing anything than reading and writing, but who lives for the moments where he roars into life on the field. Nothing in the dark can block out the lantern of his joy and compassion. For a second, Dylan Martin’s face flashes in my mind. I think about Elodie and how Isabelle almost lost her sister to that man. I think about Dallas and how nothing would stop him from finding his brother. I think of Dylan again. He represents the lowest point of humanity - what happens when pain and neglect go untended. We see that a lot in this business. But sometimes, we see bright little beautiful things shining from the ashes. Sometimes, we watch as the world glows a bit brighter while they work diligently and quietly in a dingy little Manhattan office. Sometimes, we let ourselves feel a little hope.


	8. A voice in the darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a homecoming.

As I said before, nobody’s too keen to be out at night, not since the Blackest Hour. Not even me and all my valiant bravery. So, when the sun dips below the skyline and Isabelle has been whisked away like Cinderella by a pumpkin cab, I retire to the living room couch with a shitty sci-fi novel and a thick blanket. Sometimes, the ghost-lamp on the corner illuminates the dimly lit room for a moment, but it passes. While Dallas finishes his work in the office, I whittle away the evening hours like an absurdly comfortable and slightly drowsy fleece-wrapped burrito. At some point, I doze off. But soon, I awake to a damningly loud swell of brass and percussion, which vaults me upright into a sitting position. Standing by the TV, tapping the volume button frantically, is Dallas, balancing a mighty bowl of popcorn and a tankard of cocoa in one hand. He turns to meet my stare sheepishly.

“Sorry. I was trying not to wake you, I promise.” I dismiss his apology with a lethargic wave. Over his shoulder, the clock on the wall reads 11:47. He joins me on the couch. Onscreen, a bunch of bearded inmates haul a boat into the harbor. I groan. 

“Dallas, again?”

“Don’t whine. It’s a classic.”

“How many times can you watch the French working class suffer at the hands of the bourgeois before it stops being fun?”

“It’s a beautiful story about redemption and human goodness. That never stops being fun.”

Maybe I’m too tired for our usual repartee, but I don’t argue any further. Dallas grins softly and lays down with his head in my lap, trying in vain to drink cocoa without dripping it on his front. While he watches his musical, I pick through the novel, not really reading it as much as staring at the same word for a while. Completely unfocused. 

“You know,” Dallas begins after some time, his voice soft and wistful. “If I wasn’t this-” He gestures around apartment with a circling hand. “I’d want to be on Broadway.”

“I know, Dally.”

“I’d want to play Javert someday. It’s way more interesting of a role than Valjean. Like, what’s compelling about somebody who is always good all the time?” Funny, I wonder if he thinks the same thing about himself. Even so, he sighs. “If I was allowed to dream past tomorrow, that’s what I’d want to do. That’s who I’d want to be.” I look down at him, but he’s watching the TV, fully invested in this story that he’s seen eight-hundred times like he didn’t just say something that broke my fucking heart. 

My biggest fear is that Dallas Crawford could leave for a case and never come home. His life is valiant and frightening and fleeting, despite his privilege. It’s funny how that works, in a way. Death would knock as easily on the door of the son of a millionaire corporate giant as it would for the working-class daughter of immigrants. Death doesn’t give a fuck about class or gender or race. Death just is. 

Dallas turns his gaze on me again. “Who would you want to be?” I shrug. “Oh, come on. You haven’t thought about that at least once?”

“I don’t know, man. This is who I’ve been for basically all of my life.” I pause. “Honestly, I think I’d just want to be wherever you’d be. And wherever Seth would be too.”

“You’re really bent up about that,” he says softly. I shrug and flick open my book again, avoiding eye contact.

“Not really.” I wipe my eyes and do my best to pass it off as scratching my cheek. Dallas, like always, isn’t fooled. He reaches up and wipes away a wayward tear. 

“You’re allowed to be sad, you know."

“I guess.” Dallas’ hand drops into his lap. I stroke his golden hair as the movie plays on. It’s a while before either of us speak again.

“I’m getting bored,” Dallas decides after about a half hour, sitting up. Wide-eyed, I watch him bound across the room to turn off the TV.

“You’re bored of Les Mis?”

“We should go out.” I sigh and toss the novel aside.

“Dallas, it’s past midnight. Besides, there’s a curfew.” He disappears into the hallway. I hear him rustling through the coat closet, but when I rise up to join him, he throws a brown leather bomber jacket at my face (the one that he outgrew when he was nine, which was the last time we were the same size). “Dallas, what are you doing?”

“Where’s your gun? You’ll need it too.” He loads his gun and reaches for a utility belt, buckling it around his hips and methodically checking the pockets. 

“In my desk in the office. Wait, Dallas, listen to me.”

“Oh, I do,” he calls from the other room. “I hear how much you miss Seth and how hard this is on you, but damn the hour and damn the curfew and may God damn Dylan Martin to hell. Ah, there it is.” He emerges, my gun in one hand and a utility belt and his coat in the other. He hands both to me and shrugs the coat on. “We’re going out to look for Seth, Ruby. We have to at least try.” I stand, unmoving, staring at him. “If you don’t come with me, I’ll just go alone.”

“Fine,” I say, relenting. “Fucking hell, Dallas.” He beams, then, like the cat that got both the canary and the cash from the canary’s life insurance policy. He reaches one gloved hand for the door but then stalls. 

“Hold on. Let me make a phone call.” Before I can ask, he steps into the office. While I check for ammunition and wrap some silver chains around my belt loop, I can hear him muttering to someone on the other line. Soon, he comes back, wiggles his eyebrows at me with a grin, and makes a beeline for a door. In the lobby, a fluorescent light overhead flickers like a twitch. Bernie sits slumped in his seat behind the desk. Dallas, warily, with his hands in his pockets, approaches the desk. He watches Bernie for a quiet second and then breathes a little sigh of relief.

“What?”

“Oh, I was just making sure he’s not dead.”

“Dallas, oh my God.”

“When you get to that age, you could either be dead or sleeping.”

“Do you think he’ll haunt this lobby when he dies?”

“Do you think he’d be as terrible of a doorman in the afterlife as he is in this one?”

“He’s not doing too bad of a job. I mean, he’s not exactly the gold standard of imperious sentinels, but we haven’t been robbed yet.” We lapse into silence. Dallas checks his watch. “Dallas, what are we waiting for?”

“Henri.”

“Dallas!”

“Do you actually want to walk to lower Manhattan in this weather?”

“Dallas, I don’t like Henri.”

“Why not? You’ve known him for most of your life.”

“He gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“It’s because he’s French, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s because he’s quiet and uses too much product.”

“That’s Francophobic.”

“He’s only driving us to Hell’s Kitchen. That’s it.”

“Well, there and back again.” Before I can complain, a sleek black car pulls up to the sidewalk in front of the building. A middle-aged man with heavily-gelled and graying hair flicks ashes from the end of his cigarette through the open window into the snow: Henri Beauchamp, the chauffeur for the Crawford family. He’s been a fixture of the family for as long as I’ve known them. As we approach, he nods once at us and to the backseat of the car. Dallas ushers me inside the car and gives Henri a broad grin. 

“Bonjour, Henri!” Then he says something in French in the same halting and insecure way my mother speaks English. (He doesn’t have to speak French. Henri speaks English just fine, but Dallas asked Henri to teach him a little bit and now speaks it whenever he can, mostly just to show off.) Well, whatever he said, it earned him a barking laugh from Henri. The engine purrs, and off we go down the near-deserted streets toward Hell’s Kitchen, which is the last place I looked for Seth. 

The air is still without Dallas’ pre-case chatter. I sit beside him, fidgeting with my fingers, my heart pounding in my throat. As we all know, I’m a walking tangle of frayed nerves and anxiety but something about tonight just feels… Off. It’s just like that feeling that you get when an Intruder creeps closer. Something ominous is on its way. I let out a heavy sigh, and Dallas swivels to look at me. Once we make eye contact, I breathe a little bit easier. If I’m going to do this tonight, no matter what we run into or who we find (or don’t), at least I’ll have the greatest agent in New York by my side.

Henri soon drops us off on an empty street corner, home to a seedy little tavern with the lights still on - one of New York’s twenty-four hour businesses, somehow still open past the curfew. The door is decorated with silver charms. Over the iron square of the threshold is a weather-worn welcome mat that reads “Leave all fucks and coats at the door.” Henri locks the car, points to the tavern, bids us farewell, and disappears inside. A part of me worries that he’ll get too wasted to drive us home, but another part of me sympathizes - if I had to drive two teenagers to find their missing blind friend at this ungodly fucking hour, I’d drink too. 

Now, it’s just Dallas and I in the snow, the cold biting our skin through our coats and gloves. We take a moment to check our utility belts, our guns for ammunition, and ourselves for any semblance of composure. Then, we look at each other and, like the well-oiled machine we are, take off in the same direction. 

The search is long and difficult. We check alleys for Seth’s slim frame and curly hair. We find entrances to abandoned buildings and scour them, top to bottom. We whisper his name into the darkest corners of the city. We keep constant over our shoulders for threats - supernatural or human. We keep our fingers inches from our guns. We don’t talk. We keep looking - for Seth and for some sort of hope from each other. 

Too many empty alleyways and buildings later, I catch a faint glow out of the corner of my eyes. We turn in unison, Dallas reaching for his gun and I for my iron chains. For a heartbeat, we’re ready to spring into action. And then we see that it’s not a ghost, but a pair of headlights. Dallas curses and drags me into an abandoned building - a warehouse of some sort - and out of view. He slams the dented metal door shut and leans back against it. I take a peek out of the dusty shattered window. As he watches the police car roll by, I take a look around. 

Broken palettes line the walls. It smells wet and cold and damp, like a cellar. For the most part, the room is empty. But as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I begin to see little luminescent patches of light in the middle of the room. Not normal, electric lights, but the glow of haunted artifacts. My heart hammers away inside my chest. The cowardly part of me warns me to stay away. But that other part of me, the wild-eyed girl who was willing to risk death to find the boy she loves, steps forward. Behind me, Dallas hisses my name.

“What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Look.”

“Look where?” I beckon him over. Several tables are arranged in a horseshoe fashion, cluttered with things. Familiar things. Agent things. Iron chains and silver filings. Lavender. Ammunition. A pistol. Even more sinister than that are those glowing Sources - necklaces, bones, shriveled severed body parts - all cased within silver-glass canisters, rigged to open by clocks reading 0:00. A memory floods my senses: Elodie handing me a glass cylinder with a rusted Roman dagger encased inside.  Dallas stirs beside me and turns his flashlight on. Spread out on the map is a wide piece of paper - a map of the city, with red pins dotting the lower half of Manhattan. Fifth Avenue. 

We stagger back in the same moment. The little yellow light on the paper wiggles as Dallas’s hands begin to tremble. I reach for his other hand. The solid warmth of his palm on mine does only a little to keep me grounded. Otherwise, I feel like I’m about to fall off the face of the earth. 

“We need to get out of here, Dally,” I say. Panic amplifies my voice and sends it ricocheting off of the concrete walls and up and up and up through the empty floors above.

“Ruby, be quiet.”

“Dallas, you don’t know what this is. It’s-”

“Yes, I do know, Ruby. I read the papers. Now be quiet before-”

“Hello?” We freeze and turn our attention to the artifacts, but there’s no malaise, no chill. Whoever is speaking is human. With one hand on my gun, I step slowly away from the table. Dallas has his gun at the ready, just one threat away from letting it off.

“Who’s there?” He calls.

“Dallas! We don’t know who that is.”

“If we’re lucky, Dylan Martin. We found him.”  _ Depends on your definition of lucky _ , I think, but there’s a breath caught in my throat, trapping my voice. “Dylan, come on out. The police are on their way. Just surrender.” Underneath his baritone bravado is a faint tremor of fear. No matter how much he tries to play the level-headed leader, he’ll still always just be a kid with a certificate and a gun. He holds himself steady, but when the voice sounds again, he stumbles backward.

A gentle cough, and then stronger than before, “Ruby? Dallas?”

Impossible.

In one heartbeat, Dallas and I lock eyes. Impossible. In the next, another cough. In the third, we holster our guns and sprint to a staircase in the corner.

Impossible.

Dallas races like a charging bear up the stairs, his footsteps thundering around the empty warehouse. On any other occasion, I would have struggled to keep up with him, but I’m right behind. I cannot move fast enough. I cannot bear not knowing any longer. 

He withdraws a flashlight from his belt and shines it around. The windows are broken and dust particles linger in front of the beam. In the center of the open floor is a mattress next to a small space heater. On the mattress is a wiry body covered with a threadbare blanket. There’s a moment where I feel like I’m about to burst out of my body and burn away, but then a pair of gorgeous, bloodshot blue eyes stare unflinchingly into the flashlight. Those brown curls are matted and that bronze skin is dirty and pale but everything is still the same. A cry like a wounded animal escapes my mouth. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I cannot move fast enough. I cannot bear not holding Seth Underwood in my arms any longer.

He shudders and leans into my embrace. I rest my head against the place where his shoulder meets his arm. Keeping time with the faint heartbeat beneath my ear. I ramble softly: “I’m here, you’re here. You’re found, I found you.” At last, I pull away, holding him at arm’s length. 

The sweater he wears - this royal blue and grey striped number, I like it a lot - hangs on him a lot more loosely than before. The sweater is stained and torn. His hands are dry and flaking and cold. With a sob, I realize his wrists are bound with duct tape. I grip his hands and I cannot let them go. For some reason, I avoid looking into those eyes. But when he whispers my name, I look right into them. He can’t see me, but he’s got this look on his face like I’m his salvation and goddamn, every moment I’ve felt useless in the past couple of months is washed away like trash in a rainstorm. If this were a movie, I’d kiss him hard and long and slow but this is real life, and, frankly, he smells like shit and Dallas is tugging me aside, one hand on my sleeve and the other holding a pocketknife. He struggles to cut through the duct tape, cursing the dull blade. As he spits profanity, Seth smiles faintly and whispers Dallas’s name. 

Soon, Dallas has the duct tape on his wrists and his ankles undone. He helps Seth to his feet. Like a newborn fawn, Seth struggles to find his footing. He clings to Dallas. Then, from the floor below, there’s the sound of a heavy metal door slamming. Seth groans faintly.

“He’s back,” he breathes into Dallas’s arm.

We stand in collective terror for several seconds. Then, Dallas throws Seth over his shoulder like a goddamn sack of flour.

“Fire escape. Where?” he growls. I point to the far end of the room with the end of my gun. He dashes to the fire escape, his footsteps painfully loud. Below us, a voice like gravel hollers, “Who’s up there?” A beat of terrible silence, and then there are footsteps on concrete floor below. Dallas shoves me onto the fire escape first. As I guide Seth onto the fire escape, a gunshot shatters the night. I scream. Above my head, a window breaks and falls into the alley below. Dallas, finally, emerges through the window, his gun still aimed into the warehouse.

“Go. Now!” I pull Seth down the stairs. Dallas follows close behind, gun raised. Several more shots are fired out. When we touch ground in the alley, Dallas picks Seth up again. Together, we run as quickly as our feet will take us away. We trade what is certainly a little patch of hell in Hell’s Kitchen for the dark uncertainty of the streets.


End file.
